The Twilight Empire (Swords and Saints Book 2)

by J A Hutson

  “Yes, Mistress. I am sorry if I insulted your friends by speaking out of turn.”

  Auxilia makes a dismissive gesture, flicking water from her fingers. “They are friends in the loosest sense. Rivals, really, though because we are the youngest heads of the great houses we find ourselves allied in many matters. Belav is a fool, and Livia a glutton. I actually enjoyed seeing Belav so outraged. But I want to return to the question you asked. What was it?”

  “You mentioned another with eyes like mine. I was curious who that is.”

  “Because you do not know who you are, yes?”

  I can’t hide my surprise, and she gives a throaty chuckle.

  “Come, Talin. Do you truly think I would invite you into my house without learning all I could about you? When I heard my nephew had been rescued from the Pale Man I was overjoyed, yes. A hefty reward, or perhaps a request for manumission from the emperor would have been most likely . . . except that Irix mentioned something unusual about you. Your beautiful silver eyes. And so I decided to purchase your life debt and make you a Sword of the Orthanos.”

  “If you know so much about me you’ll also know that I can’t remember my past. I certainly have no memory of my homeland or my people.”

  Auxilia tilts her head to one side. “Take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  She ignores the rudeness of my surprised reply. “Take off your clothes. That is a command, Sword Talin.”

  Slowly, I unbutton my damask shirt, the one Irix left for me earlier; it’s completely soaked from the steam, and it clings to me as I peel it off.

  Auxilia studies me with a critical eye. “The story of a man is written in his skin,” she says, and it sounds to me like she’s quoting someone. “And your story looks to have been quite exciting.”

  I shrug, tracing the red mark in my side that Valyra woven close with her healing magic. “I keep finding myself in fights.”

  “But it’s not just the fresh scars,” Auxilia muses. “Your body is a patchwork of old wounds. You have been in many battles – yours has been a violent life.”

  I examine the faded white lines marring my flesh. I somehow know which ones came from blades or arrows, and which were inflicted by talons or teeth. “I was trained to fight. This I know. It is the only thing I remember from my past.”

  “Perhaps we need to look for more clues.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Auxilia raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yes.”

  I can’t help but glance around the baths, even though I already know we are alone. Then I unlace my breeches and let them fall.

  The matriarch of the Orthanos takes a sip of her wine, and I can’t help but think that she’s trying to hide her smile. She clears her throat and sets down her goblet with a clink.

  “Well, we’ve just learned something. You came into my household in possession of two impressive swords.”

  Now that I wasn’t expecting. A hot flush rises in my face, and Auxilia bursts into surprisingly youthful laughter. “Your embarrassment is charming,” she says, moving away from the edge of the pool. “Now join me in here.”

  There’s no way I can refuse her . . . and, to be truthful, I don’t want to. Gingerly, I ease myself into the water. It’s shallower than I expected, barely rising up to my chest, and also warmer. The wounds I received in the undercity prickle as they are submerged in the heated water.

  Auxilia slides towards me. “Does it hurt?” she asks, with what sounds like genuine concern.

  “No,” I reply, a little hoarsely. She’s very near, and I can feel myself stirring. “It feels good.”

  Auxilia drifts even closer, until her soft breasts are just touching my chest. She’s staring up into my face, and I’m having trouble looking away from her. “That’s good,” she whispers, slipping her slim brown arms around my neck. Then she pulls herself slightly out of the water, bringing her lips up to meet mine.

  I taste the sweetness of the wine first, and then her tongue is in my mouth. I return the kiss, unable to stop my hunger for her from rising. She seems to sense this and presses herself harder against me, her fingers tangling in my hair. I place my hands on her waist and lift her up, then pull her down onto me, guiding my cock inside her. She gasps as I enter her, pulling back from our kiss as she puts her hands on my chest. With her eyes closed, she begins to find a rhythm, rocking back and forth, her head tipped back so that her long black hair fans across the surface of the water. With my hands still on her hips, I match her motion with my own thrusts. Auxilia’s breathing quickens, and I lean forward to kiss the swell of her breasts.

  “Oh!” she cries, her movements quickening. She throws herself forward, her wet hair lashing me as her mouth finds mine again. She bites down on my lip as her nails rake my back. “Oh!” she cries again as a shudder goes through her. I feel myself building towards climax as well, and my hands slide around her body to grip her buttocks and pull her hard against me, crying out her name as I finish inside her.

  For a long while after we linger there, floating in the pool, her head on my shoulder. Her hot breath is on my neck and her fingertips idly trace the marks her long nails have made in my back. She makes no apologies, and I don’t expect her to.

  “Mistress,” I finally venture, “who is it that I remind you of?”

  She stirs against me, pulling away slightly as she studies my eyes. “The Prophet,” she murmurs. “His eyes are also silver.”

  17

  “To go to court so soon,” Irix muses as he watches me slip on the shimmering red doublet he’s brought to my room, “it is highly unusual.”

  I shrug as I fumble with the slippery pearl buttons, and with a sigh he steps forward to help me.

  “Our mistress has traditionally taken her favorite when called before the jeweled throne. For you to assume that position after only a few days is unprecedented.” He steps back, eyeing me critically.

  “And who would typically accompany her?” I ask as he reaches into his pocket and draws forth a small white flower.

  “These last few months? Jalent.”

  This does not surprise me. I’ve felt the venom radiating from the blond-haired Sword every time we’ve seen each other in the manse. He actually sent a servant to request a duel on the practice grounds, but I haven’t bothered to respond. I have more important things on my mind than engaging in such a ridiculous rivalry.

  Irix approaches me again and pins the flower to my left breast. “There. That completes it.” He sounds satisfied with himself.

  “What do you know about the Prophet?” I ask the blue servant as he starts to mull over which belt I should wear from the many options laid out on my bed. He glances at me in surprise just as he picks up a braided cord of fine white fabric.

  “The Prophet? I know very little. For many in Zim he is the last link to their vanished gods. He claims to speak for them, and also claims he is the herald of the end times. Not everyone follows his teachings – including many of the nobility, like our mistress – but he does have great support among the common people. For that reason, the powerful in Zim tread lightly around him.” Irix leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Even the emperor, it is said.”

  “Have you seen the Prophet before?”

  “Me?” Irix looks amused. “Of course not. He very rarely makes appearances outside of the great temple he dwells inside. I’ve lived in Zim for nearly a decade, and I can’t remember when I’ve ever heard of him emerging to mingle with the people.”

  “The handmaiden who delivered Auxilia’s message –” I pause as Irix clears his throat. “Fine, our mistress’s message, said the Prophet would be in attendance in court today. That the heads of the great families are being called to witness the resolution of some dispute he is involved in.”

  Irix shrugs. “I know nothing of this. Though there have been rumblings of conflict among the great powers of the empire, I have paid it little attention.
My responsibility is merely the efficient running of the Orthanos household.”

  “And you do that remarkably well,” I say, checking myself in the mirror. I do look rather striking, I must admit.

  “Your words honor me,” Irix says, puffing out his chest slightly. “Now, let’s go find you some suitable footwear.”

  ‘Suitable footwear’ ended up being embroidered silken slippers festooned with little green gemstones. The kind of shoes that would be comfortable while lounging around one of the manse’s many salons or drawing rooms . . . but not slogging through the streets of Zim.

  I sigh, carefully stepping over a large pile of fly-encrusted shit that looks to have been dropped by an animal larger than a horse. There are all sorts of dangers pockmarking the cobblestones, even on this major thoroughfare cutting through the capital: the remnants of smashed fruit, night soil tossed from windows and doorways, and even the occasional dead rat, bloated by the rich feast presented by the city.

  Luckily, we don’t have to worry about navigating through the crowds that usually fill these streets, as a regiment of Orthanos warriors have formed a wide circle around Auxilia’s palanquin and the Swords that pace alongside it. All seven of us are accompanying our mistress on this journey to the palace, but I’ve been told that only I will enter with her, as each family head is allowed but a single guard. Jalent is clearly infuriated by this; he’s scowling at me from the other side of the heavily muscled bearers who carry the palanquin on their broad shoulders. The rest of the Swords seem unmoved by my apparent designation as their mistress’s current favorite: Romen the Northman is his normal cheerful self, whistling happily as if he’s enjoying a pleasurable stroll. Gawkers are peering through the circle of steel, trying to catch a glimpse of the noblewoman and her Swords.

  They won’t see anything of her, though, as she’s recessed within her golden palanquin behind heavy drapes sewn with iridescent feathers, the symbol of the Orthanos family. Several handmaidens are inside with her, and every once in a while, a high-pitched laugh tumbles forth.

  “Listen to them,” the huge gel-akon remarks, coming up beside me. “Like a bunch of gossiping maids, eh? I wonder what they are tittering about.”

  “I have no idea,” I reply, and Romen nudges me hard in the side, sending me stumbling a few steps.

  “I hear you do, friend Talin,” he chortles. “Whispers tell me that the mistress has taken quite a liking to you. That you’ve been called to her chambers twice already.” He grins at me, and I’m annoyed to feel a slight blush creeping into my face.

  The Northman is right, though. Ever since our encounter in the baths, Auxilia has requested my presence in her bedchamber in the evenings. I haven’t slept in my own bed in several days. If this is the primary duty of being a Sword, I could see why Jalent is so territorial. Auxilia is a skilled lover, and a lively conversationalist. I have come to look forward to our pillow talk almost as much as the lovemaking before, though she always skirts the topics which are of the most interest to me. She refuses to discuss the Prophet, or any of her speculations about the possible connections between him and me. Why, I cannot guess, though my suspicions are that she fears that there might be spies in her household – or even that I am compromised – and that she does not wish her words to return to the ears of her enemies. So instead we’ve talked about Zim, and her family, and my recollections of my brief wanderings south of the mountains. She laughed at the antics of Poz and Bell, gasped at our adventures, and was suitably impressed that a lamias had chosen me as a worthy mate. When I described the Contessa and her shadowdancer, I saw a shadow cross her face, but by the time I told her of our escape from the temple of the Cleansing Flame she was smiling again.

  The pealing of trumpets draws me from my thoughts. We are approaching a massive archway draped in banners of Zimani purple. Heralds dressed in bright colors perch along the parapets, the sunlight glinting on their curving silver horns. Zimani soldiers in flashing golden armor line our approach, motionless save for the wind playing in the crest of red horsehair falling from their helmets.

  “Ah, the Imperial Way,” Romen says, waving at the legions. “The Zimani do so love their pomp and grandeur.”

  The emperor’s audience hall is easily the biggest room I’ve ever entered. A forest of vast pillars as thick around as elephants line the length of the chamber, supporting a peaked roof that is so high I can see dark specks that must be birds fluttering among its highest reaches. The floor is gleaming marble thickly veined with blue, though a carpet of glistening purple unfurls the length of the room, eventually ascending the six tiers to where the imperial throne looms. I expect the seat of the empire to be something gilded, but the emperor sits instead upon what looks to be a barely hewn lump of jagged black rock inset with blazing fire opals.

  The emperor, however, looks more the part, an older Zimani with a close-trimmed beard of purest white. He’s wrapped in the imperial purple robes of state, and a spotted cat the size of a small pony is curled at his feet, watching the milling crowd of courtiers and sycophants with slitted amber eyes. I can’t help but compare the regal figure of the emperor with the wasted creature I encountered in the undercity. Could the Pale Man have been some distant, twisted ancestor of the current Purple Emperor? Or had that creature killed the emperor long ago and stolen his ring and robes?

  “You’ve brought your new dog to court.”

  The words of patriarch Belav bring me back from that chamber of horrors beneath the city. He could be a painting of an arrogant noble, his hand casually resting on the fist-sized ruby on his sword’s pommel, his lips twisted into sneering disdain. The patriarch has traded his obsidian-sewn red robes for an elaborately wrought suit of plate armor fashioned from the same flashing black rock, all sharp edges and jagged spikes. Only his head is exposed, comically small atop his bulky outfit.

  He looks ridiculous.

  “He followed me here – he’s quite loyal,” says Auxilia lightly, plucking a long-stemmed glass filled with a dark liquid from a servant’s tray.

  “So loyal you’ve kept him shackled,” Belav replies, gesturing at the circlet around my ankle. The green-haired wild woman at his side gives a hissing chuckle, as if her master has scored a point in some inscrutable game.

  Auxilia laughs lightly and takes a small sip of her glass. “Well, not all of my pets are housebroken.”

  The jaw of Belav’s Shield hardens, her bile-green eyes flashing. The patriarch smiles thinly, shaking his head. “You always know where to thrust the knife, beautiful Auxilia.” He takes his own glass from the hovering servant and raises it in her direction. “May your sharp wit never dull.”

  Auxilia returns the toast, then turns to survey the crowd of jostling Zimani nobles. Belav joins her, standing so close that – to my surprise – I feel a little flash of jealousy. We are standing on the third broad tier with the other heads of the great houses. The two tiers below us and the ground floor of the great audience chamber are filled with what I assume are those of lesser rank, though how they’ve been divided is unknown to me. One difference I do notice is that no one but the patriarchs and matriarchs on our level are allowed a Sword or Shield.

  The emperor is the only inhabitant of the sixth, highest tier, and the one directly below him is empty, but there are a few figures milling on the fourth tier: an old man in lush vestments inscribed with strange golden runes, a huge bald Zimani in gold armor that appears to be a more elaborate version of what the imperial soldiers are wearing, and a small, thin woman in simple black robes, her hands tucked into her long dagged sleeves.

  “Do you know anything about this summons?” Belav asks in a voice barely above a whisper, leaning in even closer to Auxilia.

  The matriarch shrugs, her dress of iridescent feathers rustling. “As much as you, I’m sure. There are rumors that he’s coming today to settle some matter with her.”

  I catch Belav’s quick glance at the silent, robed woman standing on the tier above us. She has an ageless, unlined
face and hair cut so short it barely reaches her ears. I want to ask who she is, but I also remember the anger I stirred up last time I dared to speak in the patriarch’s presence.

  “That would be interesting,” Belav mutters, returning his gaze to the court.

  Something is happening down there. A moment ago it was a raucous tumult of loud conversations and laughter, but now, starting from the back, it seems to be falling quiet.

  “He’s here,” Auxilia murmurs, so softly I think she’s speaking to herself.

  My eyes scan the crowd, and soon I find what has drawn everyone’s attention. Four beautiful Zimani women are walking in lockstep towards the tiered dais where the emperor waits, two in front and two behind. Each is dressed in a color I’d associate with the dawn: red and yellow and orange and the pale pink that gilds the clouds just when the sun begins to wake. I’ve seen them before – these are the women who stood on the walls of Zim when our caravan first approached the gates. The Daughters of the Prophet, one of the guards that day had named them.

  And standing in their midst must be the Prophet himself. Ever since Auxilia told me that he shared my silver eyes I’ve entertained the thought that perhaps he is the one who visited me that night in the mucker’s barracks. But this is not the case. That man – the one who claimed to be my brother – looked very much like me. The Prophet does not. He’s broad and barrel chested, and beneath his unremarkable brown robes I can see the hint of a belly. He has curly dark hair and a wild bristly beard marked with fingers of gray. He looks, to be honest, like a wandering mendicant who has taken a vow of poverty.

  As the four solemn-faced women and the Prophet approach the throne I try and get a look at his eyes. By the time he’s close enough that I can make out any details, he’s nearly to the first great step, and behind him the entire audience hall has fallen silent. It’s so quiet that I can hear only a faint hum, rising and falling. It sounds like it’s coming from the Daughters. It’s distracting, like an insect buzzing just out of sight.