Empire of Dust

In Macedon, war rises like smoke, forbidden romance blooms and ancient magic tempered with rage threatens to turn an empire to dust

After winning his first battle, Prince Alexander fights to become the ruler his kingdom demands—but the line between leader and tyrant blurs with each new threat.

Meanwhile, Hephaestion, cast aside by Alexander for killing the wrong man, must conceal the devastating secret of a divine prophecy from Katerina even as the two of them are thrust together on a dangerous mission to Egypt.

The warrior, Jacob, determined to forget his first love, vows to eradicate the ancient Blood Magics and believes that royal prisoner Cynane holds the key to Macedon's undoing.

And in chains, the Persian princess Zofia still longs to find the Spirit Eaters, but first must grapple with the secrets of her handsome—and deadly—captor.

New York Times
bestselling author Eleanor Herman entwines the real scandals of history with epic fantasy to reimagine the world's most brilliant ruler, Alexander the Great, in the second book of the Blood of Gods and Royals series.

Books by Eleanor Herman
available from Harlequin TEEN

Blood of Gods and Royals series

(in reading order)

Voice of Gods
(ebook novella)

Legacy of Kings

Empire of Dust

To my stepson Sam Dyment and his bride, Crisy Meschieri Dyment.
May your marriage remain an enchanted adventure forever.

Contents

ACT ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

ACT TWO

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

ACT THREE

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

ACT FOUR

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

ACT FIVE

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Excerpt from
Voice of Gods
by Eleanor Herman

ACT ONE:
CAPTIVE

From the deepest desires often comes the deadliest hate.

—Socrates

Chapter One

LEAVES RUSTLING. BRANCHES CREAKING
.

The tinkle of tiny bells and cymbals creeps toward her on the wind. Olympias—queen of Macedon, mother of Prince Regent Alexander—knows she is close.

She keeps walking through the trees of the sacred trail—where horses are forbidden—even though her legs ache and a dull pain in her lower back throbs from long hours in the saddle. She needs answers.

Finally, she sees the sacred oak in the clearing ahead, a tree that was already ancient when Troy burned. Its weighty lower limbs, thick as a man's body, rest on the ground, gray and gnarled, before curling up again.

The afternoon air is thick and warm, and a trickle of sweat drips down her neck. Her long, silver-blond hair has come undone, wisps blowing into her face as they did so often when she was young and preferred to wear it loose.

An eternity ago, on just such a summer afternoon full of birdsong and sunshine, she lay with
him
here, wrapped in his strong arms under these wide, whispering boughs. Then her heart was alive with love, and she truly believed she could feel the presence of the goddess who was said to dwell within the tree. Now her pulse is no more than a beating drum, counting the hours, months, years that have been lost. The emptiness of her life eats at her organs like the arsenic she has feared ever since she became queen. For all know that arsenic is the king of poisons, the poison of kings. And queens.

She feels the unquenchable hunger rising in her blood again, the insistent need for something—anything—to stop the torment. Watching as flames consumed the potter's house three days ago—hearing the screams of the family as her guards dragged them outside—satisfied her need for action for a few beautiful hours...but then the bright, warm blaze of vengeance quickly turned cold as ashes.

Frustration gnawing at her, she pushes her way into the sanctuary of the branches. The world under the tree is like a spacious villa, with countless rooms on many floors—long-empty—divided by diaphanous curtains of green. Golden light pours through dozens of windowlike partings. She approaches the trunk and runs a hand over the rough edges of the lumpy bark. How many warriors joining hands would it take to surround the trunk? Twelve? Fifteen?

A man's voice startles her and she inhales sharply. “I received your message, my queen.”

Lord Bastian steps out from behind the trunk and gives her a mocking bow—not quite low enough and far too fast. She lets herself take in the burning dark eyes and tall form, a bit sorry he isn't wearing the black leather uniform and horned helmet of an Aesarian Lord, although his mulberry-colored tunic shows off his lean muscles. His dark hair hangs in thick waves to his shoulders.

Olympias fingers the dagger in her cloak pocket and feels the sharpness of its tip. “You survived the battle,” she says archly. “My guards told me that my son performed brilliantly as general.”

The scar on Bastian's cheek twitches a bit, puckering. “Yes. It was an impressive performance. Still, I don't know that Alexander would have won if the girl hadn't helped him.”

The
girl
.

Olympias should be grateful to the wretch for saving Alexander's life, but all she can feel is a bright, hard anger pulsing through her veins. “My messengers have brought me stories that Katerina used a catapult to shoot amphorae full of scorpions and snakes at your army. That she unleashed the hellion—”

Bastian winces and waves a hand to stop her. “Speak no more of the battle,” he says, taking a step toward her. “The Lords have been humiliated. Despite our superior numbers, despite the fact that we are the best fighting force in the world, we were vanquished by a boy leading an untested army—and a girl tossing pots.”

He steps even closer, and she can feel his breath on her forehead. “Where have you been the past few days?” he asks. “Our spies say you left the palace before the battle.”

Her heart beats faster as he nears. It's not just that he's young and handsome and slender while her husband, King Philip, is middle-aged, stocky, and missing an eye. What draws her irresistibly to this Lord is the sense of danger that wafts about him like an Egyptian perfume. Intoxicating.

This man knows no loyalty—he is capable of doing anything, killing anyone. Even her. He's already tried once.

When her taster had fallen unconscious after sipping the queen's wine, Olympias learned from her guard that the Aesarian Lord Bastian, a guest at the palace, had been flirting with the serving maid while she was carrying the queen's tray to the royal rooms. It was not hard to conclude that he had poured poison into the cup while the silly fool was staring love-struck into his dark eyes.

She could have called her guards and had Bastian imprisoned, tortured, and executed—but that would have been the impetuous solution. Olympias has always prided herself on seeing the larger stage and possessing the patience to allow plots to unfold. She suspected the Lord would make a useful tool, and she had been right.

At her request, he had framed her long-lost daughter, Katerina, for his own misdeeds, keeping the queen free from Alexander's blame when his friend was flung into the dungeons. Bastian had whispered to her the Lords' plans to break into the palace, so she had had time to hide from the attackers in her hidden altar. Bastian had proven very useful—until the Aesarian Lords left the palace to prepare for battle against Macedon while King Philip was away in Byzantium.

With war declared between Macedon and the Lords, Bastian could obviously no longer serve as her spy in the palace. As easily as he'd become her minion for a brief time, his loyalties shifted.

But they are
always
shifting, she realizes now. She can see it in his eyes, the way self-interest and opportunity ripple across his vision like waves in a pond. He is more of a threat than ever before. He knows too much about her plots, her fears, and her needs.

She cannot allow him to live.

But she needs one last thing.

“What are you hiding?” he asks, tracing a finger across her jaw.

“All mortals have their weaknesses,” she says, refusing to answer his question. “That girl—Katerina...” The name tastes like acid on her tongue. “She happens to be mine. And yours, well...” She removes her cloak and unclasps the jeweled brooches at her shoulders, letting her gown slip down slowly until it pools around her ankles. Streaks of sunlight sway through the curtain of leaves and tickle her skin. “We all know yours.”

A man's eyes are the best mirror for a woman's beauty. When she gazes into his, a thrill of satisfaction, of power, moves through her. He closes the distance between them, unable to contain his hands, which weave themselves into her waist-length hair. He grabs on—a bit too hard—and draws her to him, his mouth pressing on hers. For a moment, she
wants
to be overpowered. Wants to forget.

She kisses him back, tasting the sweetness of his youth, his energy, his belief in his own invulnerability. Olympias was like that once, too. Long ago, when the world shimmered like a gem in the palm of her hand and anything seemed possible. Before the curse that ground the gem into dust.

But now, at least for a while, she can be young and free again as the wind rises around them, and the giant oak whispers restlessly, urging them on.

* * *

Olympias adjusts her gown as Bastian pulls on his boots. The sun is low on the horizon, its rays filtering in through the branches and turning the trunk bright red in patches.

“I won't make it back to the fortress until the day after tomorrow,” he says. “And you? You, too, have a long ride back to Pella, or are you returning to Erissa? What were soldiers doing there—looking for the girl?”

When she doesn't respond, he picks up his sword belt and buckles it around his slim hips. “Why does that girl matter so much? What is she to you?”

“
She
is nothing,” Olympias says. “But she is the key to freeing someone infinitely more important.”

He tilts his head and stares at her. “Who can be that important to the queen of Macedon?” His eyes narrow. “A lover, perhaps?” He laughs as she looks quickly away from him. “What—you think I don't know you're imagining someone else when we're together? I don't care. I'm not in love with you. Zeus help the man who is.”

Olympias pretends to focus on tying her sandal strap, but she is angry. Not with Bastian, but with herself. Has she gotten so soft that she can't mask her feelings? Philip never knew. But then, Philip is a fool.

“You spoke of freeing him. Is this lover a slave, then? I would like to see the man who has such an effect on you,” he says, taking a step toward her. He towers over her, his long shadow swallowing her. “More of an effect, even,” he says slowly, “than me.”

“A slave? No,” she says sharply, standing and slapping the dirt from her robe.
I am not afraid of you,
she thinks as she flings the cloak over her shoulders, aware of her dagger's weight in the right pocket. “No
man
could ever have a hold on me.” She's tired of his arrogance. He speaks to her as if he owns her—and she is no toy.

He grabs her wrist hard and leans in to her, his breath hot on her cheek. “A woman, then,” he says, his eyes lighting up with sensual amusement.

“A
god!
” she spits at him, her patience done. She hasn't spoken the word in years, but it doesn't matter that he knows because after today he will cease to exist. Bastian thinks he knows what power is—but what he knows is only a poor imitation of true majesty.

It takes Bastian a moment to comprehend what she's saying, but she can see the instant he understands. His eyes burn, sharp as flints.

Suddenly, his expression softens, and he puts a hand on her arm. “In that case, I can't be jealous of my rival, Olympias,” he says, his voice oddly gentle. “Indeed, you have my sympathy. It's ruinous for a mortal to love a god.”

She says nothing, though his words unsettle her. She doesn't want his pity.

The wind moans. All around them, the chimes tied to the branches—offerings to the goddess—clang like harsh laughter, the ribbons dance, the branches pop and wheeze.

He plucks a leaf off her robe. “Wouldn't you rather have a companion of flesh and bone?”

Olympias smiles, more to herself than to the scarred Lord. He would never understand the sensation of being next to the burning soul of a being made from the same stuff as the stars, who has wind in his blood, and fire for a heart.

“You have been a most amusing companion of flesh and bone,” she purrs, placing a small white hand on his chest, feeling the hardness of muscles. She runs her hand down to his abdomen, lingering a moment on his rib cage and feeling the tendons alternate with bone. The best place in which to slide a dagger.

He stops her hand from dipping lower. “Let's toast to that.” He pulls a goatskin from his pack, and she observes as he puts it to his lips, drinking deeply. She watches carefully, noting when he swallows. “Ah, Chian wine,” he says. “Even better than the gods' nectar.” He passes the goatskin to her.

It's strong and sweet, and she feels it warming her chest. She tries to hand the goatskin back to him, but he shoos her hand away.

“Have more,” he says, studying her intently.

A red-hot spike of fear shoots up her spine. “No,” she replies, pushing the goatskin away too hard. “I don't...don't...” Her words slur, and her head is suddenly crushed by dizziness.

Poison.

Impossible. She
saw
him sip it, too...

The wind whips angrily through the tree; the huge boughs seem to rise up like arms and drop down again with a groan as the bells and cymbals jangle. The world reels diagonally, and Olympias drops to the ground, facing the tree trunk. She hears Bastian's footsteps crunch over the leaves as he walks away. She tries to turn her head to see, but she can't.

Her blood turns to ice, slowing and hardening in her veins. Her breathing slows, too—she can't get air. Blackness descends all around her, muffling the swishing leaves, the creaking branches, and the sound of her heartbeat, faltering.