Europa (75 page)

Radu lay on his back, his broken sword near his hand, his face still defiant and proud as he glared up at his older brother. Vlad towered over him, his burning seireiken hovering over his younger brother’s face, blinding him with its light, scorching him with its heat.

Omar ignored them both. He walked right past them to the edge of the dock, fell to his knees, and vomited into the water. His stomach churned and his throat burned and his mouth ran slick with acid and slime as his nostrils filled with the stench of it. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears stinging him as they seeped out and ran down his cheeks.

Ysland. Vlachia. Constantia. Stamballa. And how many more that I never noticed?

How many thousands… millions more?

How many died in agony? How many live on in agony?

Four and a half thousand years… of this.

He wept and retched, and eventually he had nothing left to give to the water, and he collapsed onto his side, staring out over the Strait at the distant skyline of Constantia in silence. For a time he simply lay there on the ground, shaking, clutching his belly with one hand and his eyes with the other. But eventually the emotion receded, drawing back into whatever reservoir it had come from, leaving him empty and cold.

I am the stone cast upon still waters. See how the ripples grow as they churn life into blood and dust.

I am the stone that cast itself. I am worse than death. Death is a release. I am a plague, and they shall know me by the ruins in my wake.

Have I become the destroyer of nations? Am I a deceiver so powerful I have deceived myself into believing I am something noble?

What am I?

His mind awoke from the torment of his heart and he began to think again. He became aware of the fact that he was indeed lying on the ground and weeping in front of dozens of men, and the shame of it forced him to sit up, wipe his face, and spit away the last remnants of bile in his mouth. He got to his feet, straightened his shirt and coat, and rested his hand on his sword, all while still gazing out over the water.

He saw the two airships looming over the channel, drifting ever closer to where he stood on the shore, and he saw the third one in the distance dropping tiny black specks over the Seraglio Point, and he heard the soft thumping and crackling of the bombs bursting inside the Palace of Constantine.

Nadira… I’m so sorry.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw with some surprise that Radu was still alive and Vlad had stepped away and sheathed his sword. The younger brother still sat on the ground, unarmed, and both of them were staring at the Aegyptian.

Behind them, the Hellans and Vlachians had come down the street to stand just a short distance from the docks to watch him in silence. Farther up the road, Koschei alone stood in the street, hurling bits of the dead Turks up onto the burning roofs and laughing like a drunkard.

Omar drew out his seireiken and the soldiers stepped back from its searing light. The old sword felt heavier than it ever had before and he nearly dropped it before he could tighten his fingers around the shark skin grip.

God forgive me.

He started to move but a flash of gold caught his eye and he paused. It was something small, something hanging out from Radu’s shirt. A little golden heart.

Omar knelt beside the prince and poked the trinket with a single finger. He whispered, “Koschei’s?”

Radu nodded.

Omar held out his hand and the wide-eyed prince yanked the chain over his head and dropped the golden heart into his palm. Omar closed his hand around it, stood up, and began walking back up the street. The soldiers parted before him, dashed back to either side to let him pass. He climbed the slope of the road, feeling for the first time how truly steep it really was, and how sharply the houses seemed to lean in order to keep their walls true and plumb.

He stepped on things. Red things, black things, blue cloth. His mind still recoiled from it, but his blood and bones had no strength left for fear or pain or misery. His body was numb and empty. He walked over the dead bodies, up and up the hill, until he stood before Koschei the Deathless.

The Rus giant grinned at him. “Grigori! There you are!”

“Yes, here I am, and God forgive me for it.” He looked up into the barbarian’s shining black eyes, and shoved his seireiken into the man’s chest. The sun-steel blade slipped in as though drenched in oil, and the man’s flesh burst into flame at the touch of the white-hot blade.

Koschei reached for the blade, only to have it incinerate his fingers on contact, and he fell to the ground, his teeth clenched, and only a wordless grunting growl emanating from his throat. Omar stood over him, held out his fist, and then let the little golden heart fall. The trinket struck the blazing white sword and vanished with a soft hiss.

Instantly, Koschei fell still and silent. The flames quickly engulfed his body, which slumped down flat on the ground. The seireiken burned through the flesh in half a breath, and then toppled over onto the ground, where the cobblestones began to glow a dull red and the puddles of blood began to boil. Omar picked up the weapon slowly, and by the time he had raised it up to look at the blade, it was entirely clean, washed pure by its own divine fire. Omar exhaled slowly and slipped the sword away.

Then he walked back down the street to the bottom where the soldiers and marines and princes stood, still watching him in curious and wary silence. He looked over at one of the young Hellan marines, and said, “Take me back to the palace now, please. I’m ready to leave.”

Wren stood very still in the half-light of the underground chamber. Two of their torches had gone out and no one had relit them. Everyone stood or sat in silence gazing up at the black ceiling, listening.

The bombs thumped and thudded, and tiny trickles of dust fell on the silent clerks and servants and soldiers.

Boom, boom-boom… boom.

Wren’s fox ears twitched with each reverberation as she tried to guess exactly where the bombs were falling.

They’re not falling on top of us, that’s for sure.

As the minutes passed, the detonations grew fainter by degrees until the floor stopped shuddering and the inkwells stopped clinking and even Wren herself had trouble hearing the deep vibrations in the earth.

“They’re moving away,” she said softly.

Tycho nodded. “But there are three of them out there. They might pass over the city one by one. The next one might be coming.”

“Unless Vlad’s plan worked,” Wren said. “What if they reached Stamballa and managed to distract the other two airships? Maybe only one of them is over Constantia.”

“I have little faith in the prince at this point,” Salvator said. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Still, it may be that the airships were ordered to attack different targets. One to bomb the palace. The others to attack the bridges or harbors.”

“Maybe.” The major turned away and caught the attention of a young soldier standing near one of the extinguished torches. “Corporal, I want you to run up and take a quick look around outside. Just get a glimpse of where the airships are and which way they’re going, and come back. Understood?”

The young man nodded and jogged out through the main doors.

“I should go too,” Wren said.

“Just wait a moment. Let’s see what the corporal finds,” Tycho said. “If there’s trouble out there, we could find ourselves down here for a very long time. And to be blunt, you’re the strongest weapon we have to protect the Duchess. So if you need aether to protect her, then I want to keep you down here near the aether.”

Wren pouted.

Well, he did say I’m the strongest one down here. I suppose I can’t be too upset with him.

It took several minutes for the corporal to cross back through the length of the Sunken Palace, climb the long stair to the surface, and scout the area, and then come back to report. When he did jog back in through the doors, he was sweating and breathing hard.

“All clear, sir,” he said breathlessly. “There’s only one airship on our side of the Strait, and it’s not dropping bombs anymore. It’s moving north along the waterfront at the moment. The other two airships are out over the water. One of the men upstairs thinks they might be there to bomb our ships, eventually.”

“Good, thank you.” Tycho dismissed the young soldier and turned back to Wren. “There. Safe as houses, so to speak.”

The major took a few minutes to speak with the Duchess and arranged for most of the soldiers to remain down in the palace with Lady Nerissa and her staff while Tycho ventured out with a handful of guards and Wren. Salvator sat in his chair breathing hard, and at one point he announced that he would remain at the Duchess’s side to ensure her safety. The Duchess replied with a thin smile.

The journey back through the cells and cisterns was dark and dank, and seemed to go on forever, but eventually Wren and Tycho reached the stairs, and those seems to go on forever as well. Finally they emerged from the small mausoleum and stepped out onto the brown lawn of the empty estate and looked up.

Smoke filled the eastern sky. Some of it rose from within the walls of the Palace of Constantine, but even more seemed to be rising from the far shores of Stamballa. The bright glare of the afternoon sky hurt her eyes and she slipped her blue glasses onto her nose, and looked again. And there, in the distance, she saw the tiny flickers of yellow and red where the homes of the Turks were burning.

“The palace.” Tycho’s voice fell with exhaustion and misery.

Wren looked again at the base of the smoke and saw the shattered edges of the walls and the buildings just barely visible in the distance. Higher and to her left, she saw the lone airship hovering above another neighborhood farther north. But the tiny gray and white houses and shops along the shore appeared to be intact, as did the tiny white fishing boats bobbing along the waterfront.

“I suppose there’s no point in going back to look right now,” Tycho said. “It’ll be just as broken and ruined tomorrow as it is today. The bastards. The Palace of Constantine is fifteen centuries old… or it was. At least we got everyone out in time. At least no one was hurt.”

Wren nodded. “Do you know where everyone else went?”

“No, there wasn’t time to plan anything. We just sent out the word to move as far from the water as possible. Why?” Tycho smiled a little. “Were you hoping to round up the kitchen staff to have a little hot lunch?”

“No, I was just wondering where they took Yaga. I wanted to check on her, if I could.” She watched the playful glint in his eye fade. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… She was still in the tower, wasn’t she?”

Wren nodded. “Sleeping. But the maids would have gotten her, wouldn’t they?”

Tycho set his jaw for a moment, and then said, “I really can’t say. In all that confusion, in all that rush and chaos, I really don’t know if anyone would have remembered to go get her. I didn’t give any instructions about her, and I doubt that any of the servants would have gone looking for Yaga on their own. I don’t know that for certain, but I doubt it.”

Wren felt her face tightening up as she pressed her lips together and looked away. She wasn’t even sure what she was feeling. Regret? Anger? Fear? She crossed her arms over her belly, and with each hand felt the many silver bracelets on her wrists. “I left her there, defenseless, asleep. And I didn’t think…”

“Well, even if she was caught in the bombing, she is immortal after all,” Tycho said quietly. “She can survive anything, can’t she?”

Wren nodded slowly. “She’s alive. But she’s still an old woman. If something fell on her, if she’s buried in the rubble, if she’s in pain, then that’s exactly where she’ll stay until someone finds her.” Wren started walking across the lawn.

“Wait!” Tycho ran after her, and his four guards ran after him.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Wren said. “You have duties here, I know that. But this is something I have to do.”

Why? Why is it something I have to do? I don’t owe Yaga anything. She put me through hell. She nearly killed me.

But she’s also just like me.

And now she’s all alone.

Tycho fell into step beside her, and she slowed a little to let him keep pace with her, and the other Hellans followed closed behind them. They hurried up the wide empty avenue behind the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, with its marvelous golden domes which appeared to have survived the bombing unscathed, and they soon came to the palace gates and entered the First Courtyard.

The bombing had begun to their right, punching huge black holes in the green park to the southeast of the palace, but then the bombs had fallen on the buildings as they worked north and west. The Church of Saint Irene had lost most of its north wall, and half of its roof. The stables along the eastern side of the Second Courtyard had been reduced to gravel and splinters, except for the last three stalls, which remained miraculously intact. The doors and columns of the portico of the Chamber of Petitions lay in shattered pieces all across the courtyard, and much of the building itself was burning, and every few minutes something inside it would moan and growl and crash. And on the far side of the courtyard, the Tower of Justice lay on its side, smashed into dozens of large chunks of masonry and stone like a broken finger pointing to the south.

Wren ran across the courtyard and climbed up on the rubble of the tower, scrambling over the cracked stones and charred beams, until she reached what had once been the central stair that had spiraled up to the balcony and down into the cellar. Now, all she could see were ragged slabs of rock covered in gray dust. She knelt down and placed her hands on the stones, and with a few gentle swirls of her soul, she dragged a few fragile threads of aether back and forth through the earth beneath her, searching for a tug, for a sensation of resistance. Searching for a soul.