Empire of Dust (2 page)

Chapter Two

HEPHAESTION STARES AS
the vein on the farmer's sunburned forehead begins to pulse. It seems he's not the only one with a headache this morning.

“I brought two barrels of olives with me, and I won't leave until you either pay me for them or give me two barrels of olives back,” the farmer insists, crossing his arms.

If he keeps talking, will the vein eventually pop?
Heph wonders as the farmer continues his tirade. He stopped listening two peasants back. This task Alexander assigned him—to make sure the peasants returning to their homes after the battle received proper payment for the provisions they provided—is by far the worst punishment the prince could have given him. He is—he
used
to be—Alexander's best friend. He should be at the prince's side, not here in this mess.

None of the peasants can read, and they each claim that the receipts they were given are for a lesser amount than what they brought to the palace. Who's scamming whom here? The palace officials who wrote the receipts, or the peasants themselves?

This little office of a low-level palace clerk has one window facing the stables, and the smell of manure rises in the humid air. Heph glances down at his desk, covered with lists, receipts, and accounts.

As the farmer drones on, his voice morphs into another voice: Alex's. The voice that Heph has heard again and again over the past two days, ever since the prince called all surviving soldiers into the main palace courtyard to congratulate them on the casualties they inflicted in the battle with the Aesarian Lords.

“Jason, son of Alfio, for killing five Aesarian Lords!” He clapped the soldier's shoulder as the others around cheered. “Ander, son of Maarku, for killing three Aesarian Lords!” Then he was standing in front of Heph. “Hephaestion, son of Hipparchus,” he said loudly, “for killing at least eleven Aesarian Lords.” As cheers went up, Alex added under his breath, “And that's one more than he should have.”

Heat rushed to his neck, and Heph dropped his eyes. Then, even though it seemed it couldn't get any worse, it did. Alex walked over to Kadmus, smiling broadly. “Finally, our greatest praise of all for General Kadmus, who estimates he killed fourteen Aesarian Lords, the most of any of us!”

Kadmus
. He is several years older than Heph and, as a general in King Philip's army, far more experienced in battle. As Kadmus seems to gain Alex's trust, Heph can't help but feel Alex lose just a little more faith in him. Heph's entire relationship with Alex is built on trust. Without Alex, he has nothing.
Is
nothing. He is a—

“...disgrace to the prince's name.”

Heph's attention snaps back to the farmer, whose forehead has turned a magnificent shade of puce. “What?”

“You heard me,” the farmer says. “A disgrace to the prince's name. Alexander saved us from the Lords, but
you—
his ill-bred puppy—can't even get a man his rightful possessions from the palace cellars! No wonder he put you down here with the manure smell.”

The pounding in Heph's head becomes unbearable. What does it mean that even the peasants in the village know he has fallen out of favor? He has to get out of here before he says anything—does anything—he cannot fix. He pushes back from the desk with such force that the chair clatters to the floor. The farmer jumps back as Heph strides past him and the dozen other grumbling peasants crammed onto benches against the walls waiting in line.

“What about my olives?” the farmer calls to Heph's retreating back, but he ignores him. Head throbbing, Heph walks down the marble corridors, past the frescoes and painted statues, toward the residential wing of the palace. He quickens his pace, trying to outrun his anger. But no matter where he goes, he still feels its heat on his neck. It's not just
what
the farmer said—it's the
truth
of what the farmer said.

Dealing with the refugees should be the work of a midlevel palace bureaucrat, not the prince's right-hand man and best friend. Or is it now
former
right-hand man and
former
best friend? Heph has no idea where he stands anymore.

Before the battle, Alex had given every Macedonian soldier a horn to blow if they spotted the Aesarian High Lord Mordecai, and specific instructions to capture—not
kill
—him. Heph had found Mordecai on the battlefield. He had lowered his sword and brushed his thumb against the smooth, cool surface of the horn dangling from his belt. He was about to bring the horn to his lips, signaling the other soldiers to help him capture the Lord, but the old man had spoken first. Smiling cruelly, Mordecai mocked him, stirring up all Heph's old feelings of being an orphaned outlaw who belongs nowhere—least of all at a prince's side.

His injured pride flamed into rage, and Heph didn't blow his horn. Instead, he let the red mist engulf him, and when it cleared, the High Lord was a tangle of blood and bone that didn't even look human.

This wasn't the first time fury had overtaken him. And the first episode had lost him his home, family, and position. Alex had found him and given Heph his life back.

But how many times can he depend on Alex to rescue him from himself?

He finally reaches his room and enters. It's small and simply furnished, but for five years it has felt like home. Safe. Until now.

He slams the door behind him, pours water from a pitcher into a basin, and splashes it on his face, hoping it will cool the heat pulsing through his veins. Hoping it will reduce the pressure behind his forehead. But it doesn't. The anger—and fear—remain.

Before the Battle of Pellan Fields, as they now call it, Heph and Alex had dreams together. They were to go on a quest to the Eastern Mountains of Persia to find the legendary Fountain of Youth. Heph doesn't really care one way or the other about sipping from the rumored magical waters himself. But Alex has wanted to ever since they found the map in the cave last spring, and that was enough for Heph to prepare for a dangerous, possibly suicidal, mission.

Alex says he wants the waters to heal his weak, scarred leg, but Heph knows that the prince's need to find the Fountain is deeper than that. He knows Alex feels it is the only way he can prove to King Philip, and to the world, that he is not limited by his weakness, that he can do great deeds like his hero, Achilles. Heph understands all too well the lengths one is willing to go to prove oneself.

He and Alex haven't discussed the Fountain in many weeks now. Maybe it's time. Maybe Heph can remind him of everything they had planned together, everything they've been through so far.

He kneels on the floor and counts four tiles from the foot of his bed, feeling for their special hiding place. The tile is cracked. He never noticed a crack before. Removing the tile, he carefully lowers his hand into the hole beneath. There's nothing there.

The map is gone.

His heart sinks as he tries to comprehend this twist. Either Alex has purposefully removed the map without telling him—or someone else has. He sits back on his legs. No one else knew about the map. No one else knew Heph had hidden it under the tile. It could only be Alex who took it. Perhaps Alex is planning to leave for the Fountain of Youth...
without
Heph.

There's a soft tap at his door, and a teenage girl slips in. Katerina. “I'm looking for Alexander,” she says, her long fingers tapping the bejeweled Carian scabbard hanging from her hip. “Is he here?”

She watches as Heph hastily pushes the tile back in place and stands, smoothing his tangled dark curls and adjusting the silver torque that hangs heavy around his neck. He can't help but notice how the emerald of her robe brings out the green of her eyes, and the way her golden-brown hair shines as brightly as the polished bronze diadem on her head. Today, it's clearer than ever before what her lineage is: Katerina, the secret princess of Macedon, daughter of King Philip and Queen Olympias, and Alexander's own twin sister.

“He's not here,” he says, more harshly than he intended.

“I see that. Do you know where I might find him?” she asks. Standing in his doorway, she looks so much like Heph's best friend and yet so, so different.

“No. I haven't seen him.”
In days
, he silently adds.

“Oh. All right, then,” Kat says. Heph expects her to leave, but she lingers in the doorway.

He needs her to go. He needs to get out of the palace. Trying to ignore Kat, he walks over to his weapons hanging on wall hooks and removes his short sword, the best one to carry when on a horse.

“I...I wanted to talk to you, too,” she finally says. “About the battle.”

“I don't want to talk about the battle,” he says over his shoulder, buckling his sword belt so that it fits snugly around his hips.

“I'm not going to let you ignore me,” she says stubbornly. He tries not to look at the way the robe clings to her body, which is just inches from him.

“Now is not a good time,” he says, turning to face her. “I'm busy.”

“Are you avoiding me?” she asks, crossing her arms and barring his exit. “Have I offended you in some way? Each time I try to ask you what happened on the battlefield, you run away.”

He
has
been avoiding her, but not for the reasons she seems to be thinking. Her smiles chase him during the day and at night, and images of her long legs and firm arms have appeared in more of his dreams than they should. She and her legs are just more complications in his relationship with Alexander. He got into enough trouble when he let Alex's half sister, Princess Cynane, distract him for a time. He can't let it happen again.

“I can't remember what happened,” Kat continues. “One moment, I felt the blade slicing into my side, and I was certain it was all over, that I would never breathe again... And then the next moment...” She trails off, and Heph notices a rising pink in her cheeks. “What did I do? Why won't you speak with me?” She places her hands on her hips, and he notices their gentle curve.

“I'm busy,” he says again, pushing himself out of his stupor and walking toward the door. He takes a step to move past her, but she remains firmly planted in front of him. “Please stand aside.”

She crosses her arms. “Make me.”

Heph is done with these games. In one motion, he wraps his hands around her small waist.

“What are you doing?” she says in surprise.

He picks her up and lifts her to the side. But as he sets her down, she stumbles and grabs at the front of his tunic to stop herself from falling backward. With a bang, she hits the wall, pulling him toward her. Only by quickly bracing his hands against the wall on either side of her head is Heph able to stop himself from crashing into her.

Taking deep breaths to steady himself, he inhales Katerina's sweet scent. It's not the cloying perfume the other palace women wear, but something fresh and wholly of herself. He looks down and sees that she's looking up at him from between his arms, her mouth open in surprise, her pink lips tantalizingly close to his.

They stand there staring at each other; the air pulses between them. And suddenly, Heph knows: he's going to lose control again.

In a different way from the battlefield, but just as forbidden.

He's going to kiss her.

And either she will be angry and run to tell Alex, or she will like it and...that will be even worse. Because when it comes to killing a man or kissing a girl, Heph is weak. His pride and desire are too strong.

And he's so tired of fighting his emotions. All he wants to do is surrender. From the way Kat tilts her head, her breath coming fast as she leans in, it seems she wants him to surrender, too. The temptation of someone who wants him, someone who sees the value in him, is too much.

He bends closer to her—

And just then, Alex bursts through the door, closely followed by General Kadmus.

Heph hurls himself away from Kat as Alexander stares at them in bewilderment.

“Alex!” Kat says a bit too loudly, pushing past Heph. “I was just looking for you. Buthos wants to put down a wounded horse even though I explicitly told him that the horse will survive.”

“Tell Buthos to do as you say, Katerina,” Alex says, nodding. “If he dismisses you, tell him he is free to come see me, but that he might not like what he hears.”

Kat flashes a smile at Alex, then finally leaves Heph's room, though her fresh scent continues to linger. Alex turns his unsettling eyes—one pale blue, the other dark brown—on Heph. “Kadmus,” he says, his gaze never leaving Heph, “would you oversee the northern wall? Please tell Captain Krisos I shall be there shortly.”

“Yes, my lord.” The general bows, and Heph can't help but notice the many scars that crisscross his deeply tanned body, physical proof of his courage for all to see. An image flashes in front of him of Alex and Kadmus kicking their horses into a gallop as they ride east, toward Persia and the Fountain of Youth.

Alexander waits until the door shuts behind Kadmus. “There's a crowd of angry farmers saying that you left them with nothing,” he says, and Heph can hear the barely controlled irritation in his voice. “Why did you leave your post? Can't you follow
any
instructions?”

“I needed a break,” Heph says, forcing himself to meet Alex's gaze. At least the moment with Katerina dissolved his earlier anger, draining him, leaving him empty—empty enough not to do something rash in front of Alex. “I have no idea who stole the olives and figs, the honey and amphorae.”

Alex's eyes take in the short sword hanging at Heph's side. “And so you decided to go out for a ride and ignore your responsibilities? Can't I even trust you with the simplest assignments? Is that too much to ask?”

“Why are you wasting me there when I could be training your men and organizing the city's defenses?” Heph fires back. “You yourself said the Aesarian Lords might return with reinforcements. You know I can help you. I'm good at that—not handling whiny farmers!”