Empire of Dust (30 page)

“Peace, young lordling,” Laila says, surprising Heph again. “I shall not hurt her—much.”

Kat unwraps the bandage, revealing the oozing, scabbed-over stump. The maimed finger looks stunted and ugly on her otherwise graceful hand. Heph's stomach lurches. If he hadn't been with Cynane...

The princess takes off the gold signet ring on her left hand and slips it onto the top of Kat's stump. Then, chanting loudly, Laila pulls her hand among the floating lotus blossoms, and the water begins to bubble. Kat screams and tries to pull her hand away.

Heph pushes in between the women, but Laila hits him with her free hand so hard, he tumbles backward across the room and slams onto the floor, sliding across the marble. When he tries to stand up, he finds himself pinned down by an invisible force.

“Menat-iqbit-nerek-hetep,”
the princess calls,
“keper-pernu-sesheb-djane...”

Steam rises from the basin, and Kat's knees give way. She sinks to the floor, her eyes closed and her mouth open in a guttural moan, but Laila still holds her hand in the boiling water.

Heph feels as if a giant foot is pressing down on his abdomen. Like a beetle on its back, he can raise his head, arms and legs, but he cannot stand. “Stop!” he yells. “Don't hurt her!”

But the princess ignores him, and Kat's wail increases.

“Akbet-sinoth!”

The princess lets go of Kat's hand and Kat crumples to the floor. After a long moment, she groans, pushes herself up to a seated position, and opens her eyes. She doesn't seem to be in pain any longer, but she is clearly weakened and gasping from it. She holds up her right hand and murmurs in wonder. At that moment, Heph feels the crushing weight lift from him. He scrambles up and races to her side. Something flashes on her hand, and when he looks, he sees that her right forefinger now has a golden fingertip, fused to her flesh, with a perfectly shaped nail.

“Are you all right?” he whispers in her ear.

But before Kat has time to answer, Laila grabs the pendant and yanks it off her neck. She strides over to the dais and mounts the steps. “Come, my faithful servants,” she cries, arms extended. “It is time for rest.”

Dozens of soldiers crowd into the throne room, pushing toward the dais, swords bumping against long shields in a clattering roar that sounds like rushing water.

Heph and Kat watch as Laila, chanting again, presses the Flower of Life pendant over the mark on her chest until it sinks into her flesh. He knows they should turn around and race from the room—something perilous is coming, of that he's sure—but he can't move, and neither, it seems, can Kat. They are like people on a beach who watch in horrified fascination a wave as tall as the sky thunder toward them, but remain rooted to the spot.

“Ush-ab-ti nen-en-pur en-tek-abkwarda wasset...”

Her chanting grows louder, filling the throne room, bouncing off the tall columns and high painted roof beams.

The pendant starts to glow until it blazes silver-white like a full moon inside Laila's chest. Heph, who has been studying the princess, looks around for the soldiers but finds they are gone, replaced by tiny blue-glazed figurines, maybe two handsbreadths tall, arms crossed over their chests like mummies, the long lappets of their headdresses falling to their breasts. Like the soldiers, every part of the figurines is covered with magical symbols except the heads.

They are really
ushabtis
. Heph feels pinpricks of fear on the back of his neck. They need to go.

Kat doesn't seem to share his mounting horror. She stares down at the figurines curiously. “Alex sent us here to get soldiers,” she says softly, looking up at him. “Heph—”

“Ma-twa kar-kam-nen-en jemset...”

The fiery glow brightens and expands to the coffered ceiling high above Laila and out to the walls, swallowing her tall form.

“We've got to get out of here,” Heph says, “Come on!”

He races to the door and pauses, realizing Kat isn't beside him. She is still in the middle of the throne room, bent down, scooping up armfuls of
ushabtis
and throwing them into her pack. The white light expands from the dais, filling the entire throne room with a blinding brilliance, engulfing Kat.

“Katerina!” Heph shouts and races into the light.

He can see nothing but a silver-white blaze. Wildly, he casts his hands about until they find her. He grabs her arm, pulls her toward the door, and they sprint through.

Outside, it is mercifully dark except for cressets, and they run alongside the rectangular pool. But still the light follows them, streaming across the garden like a rapidly spreading flood.

They race through the connecting corridor, across the entrance courtyard, and out of the main palace gate into the street. When they look back, the light is still behind them, washing into the cursed city.

“We've got to get out of the here, now!” Heph says. “To the gate!”

As they run through the rubble and corpse-filled streets, Heph can only hope he knows the way to the gate. There's no time to think about it. He nimbly jumps over charred roof beams, broken walls, and decomposing bodies with Kat at his side. They run past the collapsed fountain of the winged goddess, and there, just beyond, is the gate, wide-open.

They tear through it and keep going across the field and into the safety of the trees, where they stop and turn. The city's walls are glowing now, so white it hurts Heph's eyes to look at them, and then a huge ball of light erupts from the city, rising heavenward. Without thinking, he throws Kat to the ground and covers her as the earth roars and waves of searing heat roll over his back.

As the sound subsides and the heat cools, he rolls off her. As Kat groans and pulls herself up, Heph finally looks back. Moonlight illuminates the smoldering rubble of what was once the City of Sharuna.

ACT FIVE:
RESURRECTED

Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.

—Aristotle

Chapter Twenty-Seven

WAVES LAP AS
gently as heartbeats against the harbor piers just outside the inn, and a cool salty breeze drifts through the window slats, yet Alexander cannot sleep.

He turns onto his right side. Then back to his left. It's not that the Samothrace inn is uncomfortable—the linen sheets are of the finest weave, the soft mattress is stuffed with down, and the ropes below the bed are stretched taut. But his mind is troubled, tumultuous.

After Aristotle told Alex that neither of his parents possessed Snake Blood, Alex pressed him to reveal more, but his teacher said he knew nothing else. He knew only that Snake Blood passes from parent to child, and he did not understand how Alexander came by this birthright. He refused even to guess.

Alex twists to the other side of his mattress.

His Snake Blood points to one truth. That at least one of his parents isn't, in fact, his parent. And if that is true, then it's actually possible—outlandish as the notion at first seems—that he may not be the rightful heir to the throne.

The very thought makes him feel so ill he wants to retch. He has spent all his life training to become king—what would he do if he weren't?

If
he is not the heir, then that would mean Arridheus, the missing boy doomed to be forever slow,
is
. And without a capable heir, the country will tear itself apart on Philip's deathbed as a vast array of distant royal cousins tries to claim the throne.

The rising panic within him surprises Alex. Even when battling the Aesarian Lords with flaming arrows and spears whistling past his head, he was calmer than this.

He flips onto his back and tries to treat his concerns like a battlefield: observe, plan, strike. Breathing deeply, Alex examines his options.

He can't ask anyone about his lineage—that is, he can ask only one person who would have as much to lose as he does if the information were to spread: Olympias.

If Olympias is not his mother, she will not want people to know she is not the mother of the prince regent. It would drastically reduce her station.

And if instead Philip is not his father...well, Olympias could not have that information come out, either. The king would likely banish or even execute her for treason.

Finally, if Alexander is a foundling, son to neither Olympias
nor
Philip, then enemies and friends alike would mock Olympias for being incapable of being able to perform her most important task, and they would question Philip's manhood. Life in the palace would be made unbearable for her.

It's an easy enough solution, then. He must return to Pella and question the queen. As soon as they get up—which, Alex realizes, will be
quite
soon, given the silvery light coming in through the wooden window slats—he will ask Kadmus to make arrangements to sail on the next ship to Pella.

That settled, Alexander tries to relax, hoping at least to rest comfortably for a few minutes. But even rest is like a wriggling slippery fish that he can't grab hold of. His gut is telling him he's overlooking something big, something important.

It could be nothing. But it could also be a Snake Blood warning, an effect of the magic in his blood, which he is only now beginning to accept.
Blood Magic.

Alex tries to ignore the writhing suspicion, but the longer he lies in bed, the more the urgency builds, simmering in his blood until there is no point in denying the need to act. Something is very, very wrong.

“Kadmus,” he calls to the door, open a handsbreadth or two. There, in the little antechamber, Kadmus sleeps on a pallet, keeping his sword at the ready. But there is no answer, no sound of gentle breathing or shifting of weight. Alex throws off his covers and in two strides throws the door wide open. The sleeping mat is rolled up and stacked neatly next to the exterior door.

Has Kadmus gone outside to use the latrine? Or has the general deserted him, thinking that Alex is a deformed weakling and that he'd rather serve King Philip?

Alex finds his sandals on the floor and hastily buckles on his sword and dagger. Yet uncertainty chains him to the spot. Frantically, he tries to remember whether Kadmus told him anything that would explain his disappearance. With a rising sense of panic, he remembers last night in the tavern. Kadmus gave his best tunic, belt, and pair of sandals to the waiter, who couldn't have been more delighted if the general had given him a sack of gold. Alex thought it was merely compassion for the skinny, threadbare youth, and jokingly asked Kadmus if he was going to live in the cliffs on the north side of the harbor as a hermit. What had Kadmus said? Alex strains to remember his exact words.

“Those cliffs would indeed be a fitting place to meet the gods.”

When Alex races outside, the sun is a blur of dazzling gold lighting up the horizon, streaming through rose-pink clouds, and reflecting orange on a sea the color of iron. Creaking ships bob against piers as sleepy sailors yawn and stretch.

Alex squints at the cliffs to the left of the harbor. It's hard to tell in this soft early light, but he thinks he sees a small, straight figure on the edge of the cliff, the sea breeze tangling his dark hair.

Heart leaping into his throat, Alex races around the harbor and up the steep path of the cliff. His left leg throbs in protest as he scrambles over rocks, digging into sandy soil that seems almost vertical in patches. In some places, Alex grabs hold of bushes to pull himself up; in others, he leaps from boulder to boulder like a billy goat. Maybe his misgivings are all wrong. Maybe Kadmus is getting some fresh air. Watching the sun come up.

Gasping for breath, Alex makes it to the flat top of the cliff just as Kadmus takes a step forward.

And then Alex knows. He intends to jump.

“Kadmus!” Alex cries. But the general doesn't react, and Alex wonders if the sea wind has whipped his words away.

“Stop!” Alex screams again, rushing forward. This time, he knows Kadmus can hear him. He sees the general flinch, but still Kadmus does not step back from the edge. Alex pumps his legs even harder.

He stops several feet behind him, not wanting to make Kadmus panic. The general is only one step away from tumbling onto the jagged rocks below. Breathing heavily, Alex bellows, “As prince of Macedon, I command you to step back!”

And—thanks be to Tyche, goddess of fortune—Kadmus does. A loyal soldier never disobeys a direct order from his prince. Kadmus always obeys.

Still, Alex doesn't make any move toward him. Only a desperate man would want to kill himself, and desperate men are ultimately loyal only to themselves.

“Stand here, beside me,” Alex says. Hanging his head, Kadmus complies. “Explain yourself, General.” He wishes he sounded more royal and powerful, but it is hard to do so when he is out of breath from the climb.

“My prince, release me.” Kadmus keeps his head turned from Alexander. “You are doing me a great unkindness.”

“And you are doing me a great disservice,” Alexander says, his voice growing more commanding. “Who are you to take away my one remaining counselor? Who are you to abandon me when I'm surrounded by danger? You are my best soldier. I need you, Kadmus.”

Kadmus cringes as if Alex had given him a painful blow instead of a compliment. “Oh, my lord, I wish you would not say such things.”

Alex is startled by the depth of anguish in the man's voice. When Kadmus finally turns to face him, Alex doesn't recognize the handsome war hero with the confident swagger and cocky white grin. This man is ashen-faced, his eyes red-rimmed, his back bowed.

“If only you knew,” Kadmus says. “If you knew, you would not say such things.”

Alex is about to ask what he means, but suddenly he stops himself, the truth flowing into him with sudden clarity.

Of course.

It's as though a giant fist has just punched him in the gut, leaving him completely breathless.

“You are the spy.”

Kadmus falls to Alex's feet and lies prostrate on the ground. “My prince, I wish that it were not so, but I cannot change what is. I beg you, take your sword and cleave my head from my shoulders, for I am not worthy to remain.”

Alex hardens his heart. He must ask. “Arri found an extremely valuable cameo brooch of the Great King. Was that yours?”

“It was mine,” Kadmus admits, his cheek pressed against the dirt and his eyes squeezed shut, “one of their unwanted gifts for my services that I threw in the bottom of my trunk. One day last month I caught your brother playing in my room. After that, I couldn't find the cameo. I was glad it was gone. I hoped he had thrown it down the latrine as I should have done.”

He twists his head around to look up at Alex. “But I don't work for Artaxerxes,” he says, a haunted look in his eyes. “I serve the true power behind the Persian throne, the Envoys of Death, the brothers of Daeva, god of wrath and revenge.”

Realization dawns fully now. “You work for the Assassins?”

“Yes, my lord.” Kadmus's voice is but a whisper in the dirt. “Unlike the Great King, they do not wish to see a union made between the Empire and your kingdom. They see Macedon as a threat to be wiped out before it grows stronger.”

Anger overwhelms Alex, pulsing in his veins, pounding in his head. Most of his anger isn't directed at Kadmus, but at himself. How stupid could he have been? Why did he let his liking for the general overrule the need to investigate him more closely? How can Alex ever rule wisely when he makes so many idiotic mistakes?

“Do you need gold so badly?” Alex asks, almost spitting the words. “You seem to live simply enough.”

“It's my family,” Kadmus says so quietly that Alexander has to lean down to make out the man's words. “I was born into poor circumstances, joined the Macedonian army at fifteen, and rose quickly. I have only one surviving relative, a sister, who married a Greek merchant from Apasa. I visit them whenever I get leave. I love her three children as if they were my own.”

Here Kadmus is quiet, lost in memories. It takes him a moment to collect himself. “The Assassins were looking for a spy on your father's council and used my family in Persia to their advantage. If I do not obey their orders, they will murder my sister, her husband, and the children. They had hoped King Philip would take me with him to Byzantium so I could give them his battle plans. But since the king left me behind, my orders are to spy on you, my prince.”

“Stop calling me, ‘my prince,'” Alex says through clenched teeth. “
My
family—
my
little brother—has been taken from me so that yours might be safe. You are no man of mine.”

“I know,” Kadmus says miserably. He pushes himself up to a kneeling position. “But know, prince of Macedon, that it was not I who kidnapped your brother. Nor was it the Assassins. Some other party is responsible for that atrocity.”

“It was your suggestion that I arrange the kidnapping!” Alex flings at him.

Kadmus winces and hangs his head. “I did,” he admits, “because I honestly thought it would protect Arridheus and relieve you at least of that burden.”

He looks up at Alex, his gray eyes smoldering like embers. “I have given word to the Assassins only of minor things: bad behavior in council meetings—of Gordias falling asleep and Theopompus drinking too much and Hagnon's miserly refusals to spend an obol on anything. I told them of your reluctance to marry. Things of that nature only. Harmless things to keep them entertained. I would never...” Kadmus trailed off, struggling to find words. “I would never share anything that would endanger you, or your relatives, or Macedon. But their patience with me is running out.”

Alexander cannot stop the relief that sings though his body at Kadmus's words, but he must remain guarded. A traitor is at his feet...and a question remains to be answered.

“Why did you not share more pertinent information?”

“I am a most reluctant traitor,” Kadmus says, with a little choking laugh that sounds like a sob. “Not only do I not want to betray my country, but...” He trails off. After a time, he says stiffly, “It's you. You see, I have the utmost regard for your well-being.”

Alex sees the unasked question shining in Kadmus's eyes, and he finally understands. The realization is both flattering and confusing. He knows what Kadmus has left unsaid. And it's not that Alexander has never entertained the idea of a male lover. It is certainly not uncommon. However, though he admires both the general's lean muscles and brilliant mind, he does not want what Kadmus seeks—the
intimacy
his eyes are asking for, even if his words are not. At least, Alex doesn't
think
he wants it. Especially not now, when he is still trying to understand who he even is.

“If you believe me,” Kadmus says, sitting back on his haunches and staring at the dirt, “then I can die a happy man. I will not beg for my life.”

“You still plan on dying today?”

Kadmus looks up, surprise mingling with dust on his face. “Prince?”

Alexander offers a hand, and Kadmus looks at it as though it were a viper. He shakes his head.

“There is only one way both my family and you can remain safe,” Kadmus says firmly. “I must die.”

Alexander grabs Kadmus's hands and, ignoring his protests, pulls the general to his feet. He places his hands firmly on Kadmus's shoulders. “If you died, the Persians would force someone else to become their spy, and I wouldn't know who it was. You can help me far more by staying alive,
pretending
to spy for them.”

What he says is true. It would be unwise to allow Kadmus to die, even if it's what the general wants. And yet... Alexander wonders if there is any other reason he is being so lenient. He
doesn't
love the general—not like a lover, nor like a brother, nor, he thinks with a sudden pang, like he loves Hephaestion, with an intensity that goes beyond friendship, that knows no bounds. All Alex can reason is this: he can't live with Kadmus's death on his shoulders. He can't live without him, period. In this short time, he has grown to need him, and whether that's a political or personal need doesn't matter. It is as undeniable as the rage of the sea churning below them or the warm rays of the rising sun.