Empire of Dust (27 page)

Gideon drops his hand. “There are new reports every day that the Spirit Eaters grow hungry, restless, and some have even left the mountains. The Lords in Hunor are worried they will not be able to contain them much longer.”

He looks over at Jacob. “That is why it is so unfortunate that the princess Cynane escaped. Though she is not Snake Blood or Earth Blood, the powerful enchantment on her would have bought us more time.”

Jacob feels torn. If he brought Cynane back, it would mean honor, influence, and keeping the devouring horror of the Spirit Eaters at bay for years. But to subject her to the abomination of being eaten alive... Perhaps there is another way, one that will solve Jacob's biggest problem.

“If she has made it back to Pella,” he says, concentrating, “I doubt we could easily take her again. But in the cell when I was watching her, she often told me how proud she was of her Illyrian heritage. That she was a princess of Dardania and I wasn't fit to wipe her boots, that sort of thing.”

Gideon raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“What I mean is, one of us should go to Illyria to look for the source of her magic. The Lords have no presence in that wild region. I suggest we send someone as a spy to learn about Illyrian magic, about a protective spell that heals broken bones and gashes. Perhaps we could find others like the princess or learn about the root of her magic to keep the Spirit Eaters sated.”

“It is a good idea,” Gideon agrees. “But whom should we send? Should we ask for a volunteer? Or were you thinking of volunteering yourself, Lord Jacob?”

Jacob waves a hand. “No, High Lord, I am a terrible liar and would make an equally terrible spy,” he says. “I was thinking...” Here his mind races ahead, to an idea that may help
both
of them. “I was thinking of my friend, Lord Timaeus. He seems so friendly, so harmless. He's a skilled acrobat who can backflip as easily as walk and, perhaps, could go from town to town in that disguise. Maybe he could even find work in the palace as an entertainer. No one would suspect funny little Timaeus of being an Aesarian Lord.”
And
, he doesn't add: sending Tim to Illyria will keep him far away from their regiment, and the temptation to reveal what he knows about Jacob.

“I remember him in the Blood Tournament,” Gideon says slowly. “We were impressed that such a small man could beat the fiercest warriors in the Greek world, and with a slingshot, no less.” His mouth slides into a wide grin. “Do you remember how he hit the noble Macedonian champion in the forehead with that pebble?”

Jacob nods. “And he can get anyone to talk about anything over a cup of wine,” he says.

“It's agreed, then,” Gideon says. “We will send Lord Timaeus disguised as a wandering acrobat to Dardania to see what he can find.”

Jacob feels a wave of blessed relief wash over him. He will miss his friend. But with Timaeus far away, Jacob will stay safe.

His relief must show on his face because Lord Gideon scowls. “This is no time to celebrate, Jacob. It is not a matter of whether the Spirit Eaters will eventually grow too large and too hungry to contain. It's not a matter of whether they will one day devour the world as we know it. It is only a matter of how soon.”

“But if we brought them one of the last gods, Riel or Brehan?” Jacob asks, suddenly excited. “Would that satisfy them?”

Gideon pauses, staring at Jacob in the dim torchlight. He has never mentioned Riel before to any of the Lords, but he recalls how Gideon reacted when Bastian brought up the name. “Feeding on such divine power,” Gideon says slowly, “the Spirit Eaters would be sated for centuries... It is possible—faintly, but distinctly possible—that they could fall into a deep sleep during which we might slay them. But at this point, it is foolish to believe the last gods may still be among us.”

He removes two torches from their sconces and dips them in the water as Jacob follows suit. Steam rises as they hiss in protest. “The secrets I have shared with you here are known only to the Elder Council,” he says, fixing Jacob with dark eyes glittering in the glow of the remaining torch.

“I swear by all the Furies to tell no one of this,” Jacob says. Emotions course through him, and he feels himself trembling from head to toe. There's fear that the Lords will find out about his abilities. Relief that Timaeus will be leaving tomorrow for Illyria and taking Jacob's secret with him.

But he also feels an upward surge of pure, raw ambition. Because the Lords won't worry about
him
if he brings them something greater even than an enchanted princess to quench the Spirit Eaters' hunger.

There is no longer any question in his mind. If he wants to save his own life, Jacob will
have
to capture the god Riel himself.

Chapter Twenty-Five

AS CYN ROUNDS
a bend of the tunnel beneath the ruined palace of Knossos, a whirlwind of bats flies at her, screeching and flapping, one of them hitting her squarely in the face. She drops to the floor, letting them pass. Perhaps it would be best to wait for Olympias outside, in the courtyard of fallen columns and toppled walls, which look to Cyn like foaming waves frozen in stone.

When Cyn left Alex's office after talking to Sarina, she had marched straight to Olympias and told her Katerina was in Egypt. A strange green gleam came into the queen's eyes, and she replied that Cyn should meet up with her on Crete, an island three days' sail from Macedon with good winds and only a day or two from Egypt.

“Why Crete?” Cyn asked, surprised.

“I will be performing rituals in the Labyrinth of Knossos,” the queen said, a slow smile spreading across her face, “in preparation for a more important ceremony. Don't you know? The Labyrinth is revered by sorcerers from across the known world because of its history of evil and madness.”

Cyn knew. Long ago, Poseidon the god of the sea punished the king of Crete for disobedience by making his wife fall in love with a bull. She bore the bull's son, who had the body of a man and the head of a bull, a crazed creature so vicious the king kept him in a labyrinth of tunnels below the palace and sent him victims to feed on. The Athenian hero Theseus slaughtered the creature, whom he called a Minotaur, and soon after, Poseidon sent earthquakes and gigantic waves to kill the people and destroy the entire civilization.

Olympias said she and her guards would be staying at the main harbor inn of Amnisos, the port nearest Knossos. As soon as Cyn disembarked this morning from Egypt, she visited the inn, and the innkeeper handed her a message from the queen:
Meet me at the Labyrinth entrance three hours after sunset.
And so she came to this sinister place.

For Knossos, though long deserted, is alive with ghosts. Whether Olympias is planning on sacrificing puppies, babies, or doing strange things with snakes, Cyn doesn't know and doesn't want to know. Because there's only one thing that matters: that Cynane obtain what she has wanted her whole life. Power. Real power. Ruling over a nation. Commanding armies. Not sitting in the shadow of a brother. Not waiting around, fat and pregnant, to give birth to wailing babies for a king. If only she can convince Olympias that she has killed Kat and the finger is proof.

She had promised Olympias Kat's head. But even if Cyn had killed the annoying peasant girl, surely the queen will understand that a human head is heavy and awkward to travel with, and dangerous when meticulous Persian customs officials open up every bag and crawl over every ship leaving Egypt like ravenous ants at a royal picnic. The queen is desperate for Kat's death; Cyn could see it clearly the night before she left for Egypt, in the intensity of her eyes and the convulsive clenching of her hands. She will want to believe Cyn's explanation, but she will also want to save face by threatening revenge if Kat turns up alive later. At least, that is what Cyn is counting on.

If it works as planned, Olympias will remove the ruler of Dardania, one of the Illyrian kingdoms, ensuring his death so that Cynane might take his place. She even said she'd cut out his heart and give it to her on a golden platter. And then Cyn will have what she has always wanted. Tonight.

She hears a low rumble from the road outside the ruins. The thunder of horses' hooves grows louder, then stops. Boots hit the ground heavily and a male voice issues orders about tying up the horses. She sees the orange glow of torches as several cloaked and hooded figures pick their way over rubble. Automatically, Cyn puts her hand on her sword hilt.

“Princess Cynane?” asks a deep voice. “Is that you?”

“It is,” she says, eyeing the figures carefully. There are seven of them, of varying heights, three holding torches. She cannot see their faces.

The one who spoke to her, tall and broad-shouldered—clearly a warrior and vaguely familiar—draws near and holds out a hand. “Give me what you promised to deliver to the queen, Princess.”

Cyn doesn't like this. The secluded meeting place, the hooded riders—she can tell the ones in front are wearing swords because their cloaks stick out strangely by their left knees—and no Olympias. It could be a trap. A plot. Was she foolish to trust the queen?

“No,” she says, standing up to her full height and taking a step toward him to show she is not afraid. “What I have is too important to give to anyone but the queen herself. Know that the thing you seek is hidden. If you kill me you will never find it.”

A small figure holding a large basket pushes its way through the others and stands before her. It sets the basket down and pale hands pull off the cloak, revealing a smiling Olympias, her shimmering dark red gown falling to the ground like a waterfall of blood. Her thick silver-blond hair—a wig, Cyn realizes, remembering how shockingly thin her hair had been that day in the tower room right after her bath—glistens in the torchlight.

“Greetings, stepdaughter,” she says. Cyn steps closer for a better look in the shifting torchlight. Olympias is exquisitely made up, her eyes heavily lined with kohl, her lips painted scarlet to match her gown.

“I have done as you requested,” Cyn says. “I have killed Katerina.”

“Where is her head?” Olympias asks, arms out, palms up in the timeless gesture of questioning.

Cyn shrugs. “I could not bring back the head.”

Beneath the heavy makeup, Olympias blanches. “So you have brought me no proof—”

“You misunderstand,” Cyn cuts in. “I do not have her head, but I do have proof.” She removes a tiny leather wrapping from the pouch on her belt. Olympias takes it and moves beside a man holding a torch, where she opens it curiously.

“What is it?” she asks, frowning at the small, sticky mass.

“Her fingertip,” Cyn replies. “Smeared with honey to keep it from decomposing. Small enough that the customs officials in Memphis didn't pay it any attention.”

Olympias stares at the fingertip, then wipes the honey off with her own and looks closely, squinting.

“Yes,” she says, almost to herself. “I see a fingernail.” She looks up. “But how do I know it's hers? It could belong to anyone.”

“It was the best I could do,” Cynane retorts. “You try smuggling a human head out of Upper Egypt.”

“It's
not
what I asked for,” Olympias says, her face folding in irritation.

But Cyn has her own suspicions of what Olympias wants the head for, and it isn't just proof of Katerina's death. The darkest magic spells always call for human blood or a human body part. If that is what the queen wanted the head for, the fingertip should do just as well.

“Then I shall feed it to the wild pigs I saw rooting around here earlier,” Cyn says, making as if to grab the finger and its oily wrapping from the queen.

Olympias clutches the bundle. “No.”

Cyn smiles. “Ah, stepmother, I see the finger has some value to you, after all.”

Olympias tosses her head. She turns quickly to Cyn, fire flashing in her green eyes, and grabs her wrist with her surprisingly strong, bird-claw fingers. “Swear,” she says, “on all the Furies and their eternal vengeance, that this is Katerina's fingertip.”

“I swear,” Cyn says without hesitation. She is thankful Olympias didn't make her swear she killed Katerina. That was luck.

The queen's eyes, locked on Cyn's, seem to sense the truth in her, and the talons release their rigid grip. “Very well,” she says. “I will choose to believe you. But, Cynane, I will know if you are lying and if so, I will punish you, even if you are the queen of Dardania. In the meantime, I will fulfill my part of the bargain.”

Cyn's heart pounds in excitement.
It's working.
Working just as she thought it might. This is it. Her entire future, everything she ever wanted, is here, right in front of her.

Olympias snaps her fingers and a guard walks up holding a gold platter. On it lies a scroll.

A warning enters Cyn's heart with the suddenness of an arrow. Something is not right. This is too easy. The queen is too pleased, especially considering all she got was a fingertip. And the golden platter is a bit dramatic... Cyn grabs the scroll from the rider, unrolls it, and walks over to her torch.

The royal house of Macedon does formally agree that a union shall be made between its blood and the noble house of Illyria, through the marriage of the young King Amyntas Cleitus of Dardania and Princess Cynane Audata Illona of Macedon...

“What is this?” she cries out, a tightening pain rippling over her chest, constricting her lungs.

The queen smiles cruelly. “It is the fulfillment of my promise. I promised you the
heart
of Amyntas. On a platter. And that is what I have just given you. He shall be your loving husband. Your overlord. The father of your many, many children.”

A red fog obscures Cynane's vision. Her heartbeat pounds loudly in her ears. She flings the scroll on the ground and leaps onto the queen, knocking her down and wrapping her hands—her strong, warrior hands—around the queen's dainty neck. A clean knife thrust to the heart is too good for this bitch. She will choke off her air slowly.

Strong hands pull Cyn up and away from Olympias. One soldier holds her right arm behind her, another her left, while a third holds a sword so that its tip barely scrapes against the bottom of her chin. Another soldier takes her sword. She cannot fight her way out of this. Not yet, anyway. But still she struggles.

Coughing, Olympias rises from the ground with the help of a guard and claps the dirt from her hands. “A ship awaits you in Amnisos harbor,” she says, straightening her wig, which has fallen sideways. “It will take you directly to Dardania's port. No one can accuse me of not doing my duty as your stepmother, darling. I have provided trunks and trunks of beautiful gowns for the bride—all of them pink and embroidered with the loveliest flowers.”

Cyn's rage congeals. It is no longer red and hot, pumping through her veins. It is cold and white and sluggish as ice. At least she can think more clearly. She stops trying to pull her arms free and lets them hang loosely in the guards' grip as if she has completely yielded. She turns her head away from the sword tip and hangs it as low as that of a beaten cur. Then she remembers finding her mother that day in the bathtub and coaxes out tears, which slide slowly down her cheeks.

“What?” Olympias sneers. “I never thought I'd live to see you cry.”

Cyn makes a little noise in her throat that she hopes sounds like a stifled sob. “I'm not crying,” she says. “I just don't want to ever marry. I want to ride to war like men do.”

The guards around her chuckle. She feels their grip on her arms relax ever so slightly.

“Check her legs for knives,” Olympias commands. The tallest guard kneels, feels the tops of her boots, and removes two knives. Then, smiling up at her, his hands travel up beneath her leather skirt. There he finds the knife strapped to her thigh, which he slowly unties, as if it was a garter and she a bride. His hands go back up, his fingers warm and strong against her skin. “Anything else up there I might find?” he asks. She knows she could break his jaw with a blow from her knee but decides to wait.

“Perhaps,” she purrs, staring down at him.

“Enough,” the queen says. “Diocles, Erastos, Jason, and Euphron, take her to the boat and lock her in the cabin. My men onboard will take over from there. Make sure it sails, then return.” She flashes a wide smile at Cynane and adds, “Don't trust her. Always keep your sword on her. If she tries to escape, kill her.” She grabs her basket and walks with the two remaining guards into the tunnel that leads to the Labyrinth.

Cyn has always bristled when soldiers laughed at her, looked down at her, underestimated her fighting ability. But now their derision is a weapon she will use against them.

When they yank her over fallen walls and broken columns, she tries to look as if she wants to comply but is having difficulty without the use of her arms. Twice she asks the guard with the torch to shed some light on her path. The two at either side of her slacken their grip even more. And then, when they approach a huge fallen column, the guard with the sword concentrates on scrambling over it, holding his weapon carelessly. This is the moment.

Cyn wrenches her arms free, grabs the careless guard's sword, and swings it right and then left in one fluid motion, cutting down to the arm bones of the guards on either side of her. They scream and fall writhing to the ground. The one who lost his sword pulls a knife from his belt, which she kicks out of his hand. Her sword cleaves into his neck and his head falls back, opening like the lid of a jewelry box, kept on by a single muscle.

The remaining guard throws the torch into his left hand and with his right draws his sword. Their weapons meet and sing the ancient song of battle, Cyn's favorite song. For the first time in weeks—ever since she killed two Aesarian Lords the night of the library fire—she feels completely and utterly alive.

But this is no normal battlefield. She must concentrate, not only on her opponent's sword and torch, but on where she places her feet on the uneven ground. Luckily, she's far more agile than the soldier, who is so stocky she can't imagine he's able to bend at the waist. She leaps gracefully onto a pile of rocks as he tries to scramble up behind her, but it's hard with both his hands full. She wants to use the advantage of being uphill from her enemy—one of the most basic battle strategies. But if she dives at him, he could thrust the sword or the torch into her face. If only she had one of her knives, she could throw it into his neck.

She stares at the sharp, jagged rocks below her feet, switches her sword to her left hand, picks one up, and flings it at him. He turns his face and tries to block it with his torch but it hits him square in his cheek. He cries out in pain and she advances, aiming to stab him in the stomach. Blood flows freely down his face as he jabs at her head with the torch, singeing one of her long black tendrils. Cyn swings and cuts off the torch's head. The resin-soaked stump of wood falls flaming to the rocks.