Empire of Dust (3 page)

Alex's mouth becomes a hard line. “You know you're banned from anything to do with the military until further notice. Kadmus is helping me with the defense.”

“Give me another chance,” Heph demands.

Alex shakes his head. “I can't trust you, Heph. Not in war. You don't follow orders.”

Heph unbuckles his sword belt and places it on the table, feeling as he had the time they were fording a particularly violent river and he fell off his horse. He'd struggled against the heavy armor weighing him down, unable to breathe, until another soldier pulled him out. Everything he has built and dreamed of and hoped for is slipping away from him, and he doesn't know how to get it back. He takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says, his voice flat and professional. “I'll return now.”

“No need,” Alex says. “I put Ortinos in charge of it. He's a farmer's son himself, and I think the farmers will heed him. But you can help Achaus supervise the restoration of the library.”

Heph winces. Another administrative role, nearly as insulting as the last. But he nods curtly. “Yes, my lord.” He exits quickly before he can see Alex's response to his formality. Heph hasn't used Alexander's title since his first days at the palace, and the words burn his throat. He swallows hard.

* * *

The smell of smoke and charred wood still lingers from the Aesarian Lords' fire, though it was a full week ago, as Heph approaches the blackened façade of the royal library. Only the far west section of the gold marble building collapsed—the secret archives and a section of the main reading room next door. Overseeing the crumbling building is another menial job, well beneath Heph's rank and skill, but at least with this one, he can be outside, away from the stuffy little office. As in battle, he will be directing men, even if it's only where to move a ladder.

“We have cleared enough debris to make a thorough examination of the foundations,” Achaus, the royal architect, says, wiping sweat and ashes from his bald, domelike head with a strip of linen cloth.

“Good,” Heph says. “There's no point in repairing the upper levels if the entire structure is going to collapse. Would you show me the most damaged areas?”

Achaus nods and hands Heph a cloth, which he immediately ties around his nose and mouth. The architect leads him to the far end of the building where they descend a small winding staircase into darkness, coolness, and ashes. The air, still heavy with smoke, stings Heph's eyes. He holds his torch high. “Where are the weight-bearing walls?” he asks, voice muffled.

“This is one,” the architect says, striding down the corridor and pointing with his torch. “Some of the blocks are scorched but...” The man continues to talk, but something itches Heph's nose, and he stops listening. There's a smell, something that lurks under the scent of smoke, soot, and charred wood. Heph pulls the cloth off his face.

“What is it?”

“A moment,” Heph says and takes a deep breath. The smell is still there. It reminds him of the time he accompanied King Philip and Alex on a mission to ferret out cattle raiders in the hills and they came across the decayed bodies of their advance team, swarming with flies.

Achaus takes off his own cloth and sniffs the air. They walk down the hallway, looking right and left, carefully studying the walls by the light of their torches. He and Achaus enter a large room directly under the main reading room, shafts of daylight pouring through holes in the half-burnt floor of the devastated room above. The smell seems to be stronger in here, but all he sees is a jumble of old desks and bookshelves.

“Where is it coming from?” he asks, stopping before a wall decorated with patterns of cemented-on scallop shells.

“I think it's coming from behind this wall,” Achaus says. “There's a secret chamber built here.”

Heph nods. Everyone knows that Philip has a rabbit's warren of hidden rooms and passageways throughout the palace. Years ago, he and Alex found several during their explorations. The architect twists a large scallop shell as if it were a door handle. A small door, cleverly concealed in the decoration, pops open.

The smell that escapes hits Heph with the force of a mace, knocking him back as he retches. It's as if a living thing with a thousand legs crawled up his nostrils and lodged itself inside him. Covering his nose and mouth with the cloth, he stoops to enter the small, windowless room.

On the floor is a decomposing body.

Heph lowers himself on one knee and holds the torch close to what had been the face. There, underneath a coating of soot, is Leonidas, the palace librarian. Heph's stomach lurches and bitter bile rises in his throat. Leonidas had been missing since the fire a week ago, and Alex, suspecting a traitor on the Royal Council, speculated that he'd been an Aesarian spy.

It seems even princes can be wrong.

Leonidas wasn't just the guardian of the library. He had also been both Heph's and Alex's teacher for years until they turned thirteen and went to Aristotle's school at Mieza. Though he was strict and as likable as a burr in a saddle, the old man did not deserve this fate.

“Achaus,” Heph calls over his shoulder, “tell the men to bring a stretcher. And a blanket to put over him.”

Holding his breath, Heph moves the torch across the body. It's not burned. Nothing in this small room is burned, not the table, chair, or lamps. Leonidas crept in here and died from breathing in the smoke. But why come in here at all? He squints in the flickering torchlight and notices something in the right hand of the corpse. A scroll.

He pries the stiff dead fingers off the tattered parchment and carefully unrolls it. The heading identifies it as one of the Cassandra scrolls, a list of prophecies supposedly uttered by the doomed Trojan princess hundreds of years ago.

Squinting at the writing, he tries to decipher the archaic letters. A few words jump out at him immediately:
Age
,
Man
, and
Monster
. His frown deepens. The scroll seemed to be describing the end of the Age of Gods and the coming of a new age—something philosophers have written about and spoken of for many years now. He himself knows nothing of it, but ever since the eclipse of the full moon a few weeks ago, murmurs have been circulating the palace that the time has come. Some whisper that the eclipse heralded a transitional time when seemingly insignificant decisions would have unexpectedly large consequences. But Heph never thought that Leonidas was one to put his faith in the stars. He preferred knowledge and action over an oracle's song.

Heph decides to take the prophecy upstairs to the main reading room, where the assistant librarians sorting out the mess of smoke-and water-damaged scrolls can reshelve it. But then he spots something in the margins. Contemporary Greek, written in a familiar scrawl. It's Leonidas's handwriting. In the dim light, it's hard to make out his teacher's notes. Holding the parchment as close as he can to the torch's light without scorching the hide, Heph scans the words.

As the message sinks in, blood begins to pump in his ears. For a moment, he feels as though he's at the edge of a cliff, that one brush of air will send him over and down into Tartarus.

Quickly, he stuffs the scroll into his tunic, feeling the stiff, cracked parchment rub against his skin.

Alexander must never see this scroll.

No one can.

Chapter Three

KATERINA CLINGS TIGHTLY
to the brown mare as she races across the wide fields behind the palace walls. She has never ridden like this before, as if she is astride a lightning bolt. Back in Erissa, before she knew she was a princess stolen at birth—back when she was an innocent child—she and Jacob used to play around on the family donkey. But that was a far cry from sleek Kokkymo, who tears through the grass with the speed of a lion and the grace of a doe. Despite her lack of formal riding training, it's as if Kat has become one with the horse, an unstoppable force of nature in perfect harmony with air and sky, earth and water.

A part of Kat's mind slides beneath the tickling mane and smooth, sweat-slick hide, and she inhales the smells of green summer grass and the rich earth of the riverbanks. Soon, it is Kat herself who switches her tail and gallops ahead, stretching her four long legs and pounding the ground hard. If only she could keep going, never return to the palace with its confusing dark-haired boys, its baffling mysteries, and all its dangers. She wants to eat sweet grass and drink cool river water and smell a thousand subtle scents on the wind.

She's always known she has a way with animals, that she can communicate with them in a manner that others cannot. It was a gift that Helen—the woman she thought was her mother—warned her to keep hidden. But she assumed her ability to understand animals came from the fact that she paid attention to them, that she took the time to listen to them while most humans didn't.

Then she met the great sorceress, Ada of Caria, and everything changed.

Ada told her of the magic flowing in her veins—Snake Blood, one of the two ancient Blood Magics—and trained her to use her abilities. Kat learned to fall into trances, experiencing what it was like to be a bird soaring through the air, a worm pushing through moist earth, and a fish darting through cold, deep water. But Snake Blood, she learned, is far more than just a connection with the minds of animals—it is a connection to the power of human thought, too.

In her last trance at Ada's palace, Kat sank into forgotten memories of her own life, all the way back to her birth. These lost memories are what led her to realize that she is Prince Alexander's sister, and that Queen Olympias, the coldhearted murderess, is her real mother. Kat can't shake the details of that memory from her mind.

Kill the girl
, Olympias had said as she held her newborn twins, thrusting baby Kat toward her handmaiden, Helen. But Helen didn't kill the baby. She started a new life in a little village called Erissa and raised Kat as her own.

Suddenly, Kokkymo stumbles and Kat's mind is jolted from the horse's body as she flies through the air and lands hard on her side. She's aware of dirt in her mouth and the gilded sword Ada gave her pressing into her leg. When she finally catches her breath, she stands up shakily and sees her mount galloping away, truly free now, whinnying in delight.

She rubs her arm and notices something glint in the grass: her Flower of Life pendant, a silver lotus blossom on a leather thong she always wears around her neck.

Kat picks it up and holds it to her heart. This belonged to Helen, whom Kat will always consider her real mother. She ties the thong behind her neck and feels the cool slippery metal just below the base of her throat. She remembers Helen's smile, her beauty, the sweet scent of her skin as if it were yesterday she last saw her. But it has been ten years since Kat, hiding in the wool box, witnessed Olympias ordering her soldiers to kill Helen.

Kat never told anyone who killed her mother, not even Jacob's family, who took her in and promised to care for her until she was of age to marry. But vengeance has long since become the blood that pumps through her heart and the air that fills her lungs. It was the reason she came to Pella with Jacob, hoping for an opportunity to get near the queen. It was also the obstacle to marrying Jacob—a quest she had to accomplish before her heart would be free to love.

But now she knows that her sworn enemy is in fact her real mother, that she had, unknowingly, plotted for years to kill the very woman who gave her life.
And
that for some unknown reason, Olympias wants her dead
.
In the beat of a dragonfly's wings, Kat has gone from predator to prey.

Kat looks for Kokkymo—it's unlike the mare to startle, and now she is nowhere in sight. Stiffly, Kat begins her walk home. The tall grass waves eerily, and a scent she can't name causes her to shiver. The sky has taken on a sickening gray-green color.

A surge of foreboding sweeps through her chest with the suddenness of a spear thrust, knocking the breath out of her.

Something terrible, she knows, has happened.

There's movement in the trees ahead. The strange sorrow that beats in her heart has turned Kat's legs to lead.

The pebbles on the ground jump, and she hears a strange buzz in the air.

A herd of gazelles breaks from the forest, all of them kicking up their hind legs in panic.

Stampede.

They race toward her like a surging tide, and Kat can do nothing to outpace them. Instead she stands, bracing for the impact of fur against her flesh. But it never comes. They veer slightly away from her at the last moment and wash around her, spraying her with clods of dirt.

She sucks in a sharp breath as one of the gazelles skids to a stop directly in front of her, its flanks heaving, its straight black horns trembling.

What?
she asks silently, feeling the animal's terror so keenly that now she is trembling, too.
What has happened?

She stares into the gazelle's dark liquid eyes...and then she sees it.

A house in flames. Smoke. Murder. Screams
. She sees bodies in the courtyard.

It's Sotiria, lying next to the well, her dark hair streaming into a widening puddle of blood. Jacob's mother. For many years, practically Kat's own.

She can't breathe. In the gazelle's eyes she sees Cleon, too, next to the gate, an ax head in his broad back.

Jacob's younger brothers, broken and lifeless, lie in the dirt.

And in front of the flames is a flash of white-gold against burning red. Silvery hair. A slender, petite figure: Olympias.

Kat's knees buckle and she sinks slowly into the grass.

So that is where the queen has been these past few days: looking for Kat. And when she couldn't find her, she killed the closest thing Kat has to a family—Jacob's.

Her chest seizes and she can't breathe.

This is all her fault.

If Jacob's parents hadn't taken her in, raised her as their own, the queen would have had no reason to hurt them.

The children...

She clutches at thick tufts of grass with her hands, holding on because around her the world is reeling. Just like that day when she was six and the queen's men murdered her mother and then came looking for her. She climbed out the upstairs window and clung mutely to the thatched roof.

Kat's lungs don't seem to be working, and golden spots dance in the blackness forming around her. Maybe she will pass out, die here, even, in the sweet summer grass... She gasps and air floods her chest.

More hooves race toward her, but she doesn't look up, not until she feels strong hands on her back. “Are you all right?” She hears Heph's voice, and then she's aware that he's knelt down beside her and is holding her hands. “Were you thrown? I was looking for you. The stable hand said...”

She stares at him speechless, unblinking, barely understanding the words tumbling from his lips.

“Here, stand up so I can see you,” Heph says, pulling her up. He brushes dirt off her head and rubs both thumbs over her cheeks. “What is it?” he asks urgently. “For godssakes, Katerina, what has happened?”

Kat tilts her head back and closes her eyes. The sun feels warm on her face, the same sun that Cleon, Sotiria and the children will never feel again. “They're all dead.” The words slide out more like an animal howl of pain than a sentence.

“Who?” Heph asks, taking her by the shoulders, gently rubbing the top of her arms. “Who is dead?”

“My family. Jacob's parents and his little brothers. The people who raised me.” Kat grabs her stomach, rocking herself back and forth, wishing they were Sotiria's arms rocking her back and forth, comforting her after she'd skinned a knee or missed Helen too much to sleep. “Olympias killed them all. She couldn't find me, so she killed them.”

Heph looks around the field in puzzlement. “Did a messenger just come—”

Kat inhales sharply and rubs her eyes. “The gazelles saw it,” she says simply.

Heph frowns, but understanding quickly comes to his eyes. Kat can almost see him come to accept again, as he had in battle, that she is something more than just an average potter's daughter.

“After what I saw on the battlefield, Kat, I would believe anything you say.”

At the kind words, Kat begins to cry, her body shuddering. “I know she wants me dead—has always wanted me dead since the moment I was born,” she says between aching sobs. “I just don't...know...why.”

Heph's arms tighten around her, and she leans against his hard chest. “Because of reasons known only to the queen and the gods,” Heph murmurs into her hair. He gives her another squeeze, and Kat stays there, tucked against him.

How can she live with herself, knowing she shares the blood of that evil woman? She wants to take a knife and drain every drop of Olympias's blood from inside her. She sees again the pitiful bodies of the children. She hears the queen's cruel laughter and smells the acrid smoke. She needs to cry until she empties herself completely, until there is nothing left except a shell made of cold, hard revenge.

Another sob tears through her body. Her thirst for vengeance—did she inherit that, too, from the queen, along with her green eyes?

She aches for Jacob. For the sight of his wide grin, his broad, friendly face. For his goodness and undying belief in her. Jacob was always there for her when she was sad or lonely. He didn't even need to say a word, just put a strong arm around her. But Jacob is lost forever now—an Aesarian Lord. Her brother's enemy.

And, if she believes Heph's report from the battle, her own enemy now, too. Heph claims Jacob tried to kill her, but Kat doesn't believe it. Can't believe it. He doesn't even
know
that the prince is Katerina's brother. There's so much Jacob doesn't know. But he can't hate her. If he did, she wouldn't be able to live with herself.

Heph holds her tightly, and she feels his beating heart against her back, his chin stubble rubbing slightly against her cheek, and for a moment she pretends he's Jacob. She inhales deeply and smells an expensive citrus cologne, a tunic fresh from the palace laundry, and a whiff of horse and leather. Jacob smelled like wood smoke and clay dust.

It's Hephaestion she's clinging to now—the impolite, vain boy she disliked at first sight when he tried to have her arrested for cheating on bets at the Blood Tournament. The brave, clever boy who got her out of the deepest, foulest dungeon in the palace when she had been imprisoned on false charges.

The boy whose kiss may have saved her life on the battlefield.

Or was the kiss only a dream, and her miraculous recovery just an effect of Snake Blood? For a moment, the face hovering above hers seemed to belong to Jacob, but then it had morphed into Heph, and she passed out. She's been trying to ask Hephaestion about it, but he has been busy after the battle, helping Alex with the refugees and rebuilding the library. And now, well, it doesn't seem to matter so much anymore if she'd died out there. Maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe Jacob's family would still be alive.

“Kat,” Heph says gently. He brushes the hair out of her face. “If Olympias has done what you say, then she must know who you are. And if she finds you here when she returns to the palace, even Alex and I won't be able to keep you safe every moment of the day and night. We must get you out of here. Far away from the queen. She will return.”

Kat nods, but she doesn't move from his arms—not yet. Tomorrow, she can plan. Tomorrow, she can be brave. Her tear-stained cheeks are cold as the wind brushes them, its touch as light as a ghost's caress. She shivers and stares out over the swaying grass.

Silently, she says:
Goodbye
.