The Midnight Sea (The Fourth Element #1) (24 page)

“Lysandros,” Eskander said warningly.

The daēva flashed white teeth at Victor. “Apologies. We’re all on the same side now. I suppose it’s petty of me to hold a grudge for two hundred years. Doubtless you’ve paid the price for your folly.”

“Enough,” Eskander said mildly. “I am left with no choice but to take Persepolae by force. I had hoped to avoid it, but the gods have seen fit to arm me with the means to do so, and I will not turn back.”

“What do you mean?” Victor asked.

“I will use fire.”

“If you mean arrows, the Immortals will just use air to extinguish them—”

“Not arrows. A new device called a catapult. It can throw Greek fire over the walls.”

“But…the whole city will burn!”

“Defiance carries a price,” Eskander said calmly. “I sorely regret the loss of the daēvas. Their bondage is immoral. But if I am unable to free them, I will have to kill them.”

“Artaxeros has my wife!” Victor rasped.

“What would you have me do? If he opened the gates, I would gladly spare all within.” Eskander’s lips quirked. “But that is as likely as Hephaestion here kissing my boot.”

“Give me a ship,” Victor said. “I will take the fire back for you.”

Eskander frowned. “From Neblis? Such a mission would be certain death. Besides which, no one knows where the witch’s stronghold is.”

“I do. I escaped from it once before. A long time ago. And a single daēva might sneak in where an army cannot.”

“Two daēvas,” Lysandros said. “I would go with him.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask for company,” he said.

“And I don’t particularly relish yours,” Lysandros retorted. “But if you fail, every one of those daēvas will die. And frankly, I’d rather bet on myself.” Lysandros said to Eskander. “ You’ll have to face Neblis eventually. The only question is whether it will be on her terms, or yours.”

Eskander shook his head. To Victor, he said, “You actually believe you can take it from her?”

Victor grinned. “She fancies me. And her stronghold is not as untouchable as she thinks. Neblis is an arrogant woman. She’ll expect a full-scale invasion, not a sneak thief.”

Eskander turned to Lysandros, and another of those unreadable looks passed between them. “What if I don’t wish to give you up?”

“Then you may command me to stay. But you know my heart’s wish has always been to see my brothers and sisters freed from their fetters. It’s why I came to you in the first place. If you massacre the Immortals, it will be a stain on your victory. And there are still the other old ones in Gorgon-e Gaz to consider. They would gladly fight at your side if you free them. And you will need them when you march on Bactria. There are still the Druj to consider.”

Eskander’s expression darkened, but he was not an irrational man. He knew Lysandros had a good point.

“If I may?” Kayan Zaaykar ventured.

“Go ahead,” the King said.

“If you had the Prophet, you might not need the fire. He is revered by all, including the Immortals. We know that Xeros twisted his teachings, even if we are not believed. But to hear the truth from the mouth of the man himself…”

“So you believe he lives?” Eskander asked.

“I do. His tomb lies empty.”

“That proves nothing,” the young King said gently.

“If I may explain. When Zarathustra was deposed as High Magus of Karnopolis, his closest friends in the magi fled the city. They formed what would become the Followers. There was already a longstanding schism in the magi over whether the daēvas were angels or devils. Over time, they recruited a few others who were sympathetic to the cause.”

“Which was…what exactly?”

“That a great wrong had been committed against the daēvas. They knew the truth, but no one cared to listen. Most people had never even seen a daēva. Half thought them witches already. It was no great stretch to convince the populace they were Druj, and that Zarathustra had sanctioned it.”

“They say he was killed by a lich,” Eskander said. “That it drifted over the walls during the siege.”

“That’s a lie,” Victor put in quietly. “I saw him alive after they’d announced his death and appointed a new High Magus. It was only for an instant, on the night after our first victory against the Druj. The hour was late. I was passing the stables behind the Temple and saw a man surrounded by magi. I ducked into the shadows and watched. They were escorting him somewhere. He wore a hood and his hands were bound, but I caught a glimpse of his face. There is no doubt it was Zarathustra.”

“With all due respect, that was two centuries ago,” Eskander pointed out. “Has he been seen since?”

Kayan Zaaykar shook his head. “No. The years passed, and most of his Followers gave up hope. Only a few kept the faith. My great-grandfather was one of them. Eventually, he gave up the robes and married, but he told his son what he knew, and my father told me. We kept in touch with the others, but there was little news to share. Then, about six years ago, one of the Followers in Karnopolis was called to give the final rites to a brother magus.”

“You count magi among your numbers?” Lysandros asked. “Besides the two Purified?”

“Not many, but some. Just before he took the blessing, the dying man admitted that he had tended to a secret prisoner since he was first raised to the robes, although he would not speak his name. But he said it was a holy man.
The holiest of all
. The Follower covered his shock and pressed for more details, but the magus refused. If he had not been dosed with poppy and mandrake to dull the pain of his illness, I’m sure he would never have spoken of it. Afterwards, he seemed very frightened. The magus was dead by morning. None but our member knew of his confession.”

Kayan Zaaykar noted Eskander’s skeptical expression and finished his tale in a rush. “We do not know where in Karnopolis they are holding him. When you gathered your army, my King, we decided the time had come to act. So we devised our plan to free the prisoners at Gorgon-e Gaz and take the holy fire. It would have worked if not for the necromancers. But I do believe the Prophet lives. And that he is somewhere inside the city walls.”

“Hephaestion,” Eskander said. The taller man looked up. “What is your counsel?”

“I think you have a better chance of finding the Prophet than taking the fire back from Neblis, although both are poor odds.”

Darius stepped forward. “I know the city well and have some skill as a tracker. I am willing to lead the search.”

I stared at him. Karnopolis. The seat of the magi. His childhood home, where they had done unspeakable things to him. Stronghold of the Numerators. They would probably catch us and flay us alive within five minutes, if we even got that far.

“I’ll go with him,” I said.

“I wouldn’t ask that—” Darius began.

“You’re not. I’m telling you.”

In my heart, I was far from certain that this wasn’t a fool’s errand. But I would not allow Darius to face them alone. And I wanted more than anything to understand my gift. This might be the only way.

“We will go as well,” Tijah said without hesitation. Myrri nodded.

“There is something else. Something we can make use of if we have to fight our way out.” Darius looked at me. “She can touch the power. Not only that, she magnifies it, like oil poured on fire.”

I tried not to wince at the analogy.

“Impossible,” Lysandros said flatly.

“I felt it also,” Victor said. He held up the cuff. “She is my bonded too.”

They all stared at me. I wished Darius had given me some warning. I felt like a mouse that had just been dropped into a nest of starving hawks.

“What is your name?” Eskander asked.

“Nazafareen.”

He tilted his head. “It is one of the virtues of the empire that they allow women to fight for them. You were a Water Dog?”

“Yes.”

“And you swear allegiance to me now?”

I dropped to the ground to perform the prostration, as I knew he must expect. “Yes, Eskander…I mean, my King. My sword is yours, until victory or death, whichever comes first.”

I was shocked when I felt his hand on my elbow, lifting me to my feet.

“Is what Victor tells me true? You can use the power?”

“I…yes. To a degree.”

“And you wish to go to Karnopolis with your daēva?”

I nodded.

He thought for a moment. “I have no wish to kill slaves. So I will give you each a ship and whatever else you require. You have until the feast day of Zeus, four weeks from now, to bring me the Prophet or the holy fire.” His tone hardened. “Then I will cross the Hellespont and no man shall stop me.”

I shared a look with Darius. One month before the city burned, and his mother with it. If the Prophet did live, they had kept him hidden away for more than two centuries. What hope did we have of finding him? Perhaps as much as Victor did of slipping unnoticed into Bactria and seizing the urn from under Neblis’s very nose.

But I had no doubt that Eskander would keep his word.
Ruthless
, Darius had called him. Yes, he was that. Not cruel or bloodthirsty, just inexorable, like the tides or the movement of the sun. I could feel it standing in his presence. He was a man bent on leaving his mark and anyone who got in the way would find themselves flattened.

“I plan to march to the ends of the world and the Great Outer Sea,” the young King said, his mismatched eyes shining with certainty. “And it’s Al-ex-an-der.” He smiled. “You Persians always butcher my name.”

Epilogue

T
he nine Antimagi rode across the Great Salt Plain. They didn’t stop until they reached the sharp teeth of the Char Khala, and then only to exchange half their captives for fresh ones at a village in the foothills.

The one who carried the urn went by the name of Balthazar. He was old, although not nearly as old as his mistress. He knew she would be displeased that they had failed to take the daēva called Victor, but he hoped that the prize he brought would blunt her anger. Balthazar feared very few things in this world, and even the world beyond the veil. Neblis was one of them.

They crossed the mountains and rode on into Bactria. Occasionally, they passed the ruins of a village. Vines and creepers wound through empty doorways. Birds nested in the thatching of collapsed roofs. Another few decades, he thought, and the endless forest would erase even those few traces of the people who had once lived here.

Balthazar knew these woods were full of game, creatures that had never heard a human footstep. But they instinctively stayed away from the party that passed through the woods, and the Antimagi saw no sign of life until they reached the shores of the lake.

It shone like a mirror in the light of the setting sun. A breeze lifted Balthazar’s dark hair from his brow, but it didn’t disturb the surface. Not a single ripple marred that smooth expanse of silver. It was another peculiarity of the lake that while it was girded by tall pines, they cast no reflection.

“One of you, pay the price,” Balthazar told his companions. “And do it quickly, before night falls.”

He had no wish to make the passage in darkness. The veil was a strange place, and stranger yet when the forces of night held sway. The things in the lake feared him, but they grew bolder after the light of the sun faded, and Balthazar was tired. He had nearly died in the dome, and wanted only to see his queen.

One of the Antimagi dismounted, yanking his captives down after him. He chose one at random and shoved her to her knees at the edge of the lake. She looked at him with terrified eyes. They always seemed to know, at the end. To come back to themselves enough to scream, or even beg. This one did neither. Only made the sign of the flame with one manacled hand, and cursed them in the eyes of the Holy Father.

How can she still believe? Balthazar wondered wearily. How can she cling to a God that would allow he and his brethren to do as they wished with His children? And yet they always did, the fools. In such moments, he never forgot that he had been one of them, a very long time ago.

The Antimagus spilled her blood into the lake. It pooled on the surface for a long moment, then sank slowly into the depths. Balthazar spurred his mount forward. He heard the Revenants tearing through the earth behind him, but didn’t look back. His companions would dispose of them, or command them to wait. Their mistress did not permit Druj within her walls.

Balthazar gripped the urn in his gloved hands, ignoring a stab of worry. He had studied its contents with great interest during the journey. The flames that leapt within were blue and cold. In typical grandiose fashion, Old Zarathustra had called it holy fire, but it was merely alchemy, although of what sort the Antimagus was uncertain. No one had ever replicated it. The fire seemed to burn without fuel. Would passing through the veil extinguish it?

The water rose to the animal’s withers. It rolled its eyes, but it had made the passage before and understood that there was no choice. Balthazar’s captives were another matter. He felt their dread, bordering on panic, and sent a pacifying jolt through the chains that left them slack-jawed.
Too much
. Balthazar’s lips tightened. She would want to question at least one of them. He was tired indeed to be so careless.

Deeper they went, until the lake reached Balthazar’s chest. It had no real weight or substance, this liquid. For it was not water at all.

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t help himself. It was unnecessary, but there are certain things the body insists on doing, and he allowed himself this weakness because it reassured him.

A moment later, he was fully immersed in the twilight world beneath the lake. Tall grey weeds swayed as though brushed by an invisible current. It surprised him that anything grew there, considering the nature of the place. He had come to the conclusion that they were part of the lake’s defenses. That they served as camouflage for the denizens of this limbo, whose cold gaze he could sense as he rode deeper, toward the middle.

Look, but do not touch, he thought grimly. I am her favorite consort, and she will punish any who interfere with me.

Shadows moved among the reeds. Balthazar kept his eyes straight ahead. At last he saw the marble of the palace, gleaming palely like the skin of a fresh corpse.

He rode through the gates and the fey atmosphere vanished. Lush gardens bloomed in the half-light, bursting with dark color. Balthazar’s gaze did not linger on the structure itself. The strange angles and twisted towers. Doing so was an excellent way to acquire a blinding headache, and he was on his way to one already. But a quick inspection of the urn revealed the fire burned still. He let out a slow breath.

Mute servants ran out to take his horse. No one ever spoke in The House-Behind-the-Veil, not unless Queen Neblis had asked them a direct question. These were dressed in long white tunics that flowed gracefully. Their mistress liked pretty things. Only the most attractive of the unlucky souls caught by the Antimagi were permitted to attend her, though their looks tended to fade quickly.

Balthazar barely saw them. He passed tinkling fountains and ancient olive groves, his captives pattering obediently behind. The closer he drew to his queen, the more he had to fight the urge to run to her. To prostrate himself on the ground and beg forgiveness. The weight of his failure felt overwhelming. He fought it, knowing it was unnatural. He wasn’t even certain she did this to him on purpose. It was simply her nature, to shape others around her will. She was the hammer and forge, Balthazar the base metal.

But he was the strongest of the Antimagi, the one she trusted above all others, and he would not lower himself in her eyes by crawling to her on his belly like a dog.

“My Queen,” he said, dropping to one knee, for she did expect a certain degree of deference.

Neblis sat on the rim of a circular pool. Unlike the lake, which had the opaque yet lustrous aspect of quicksilver, this was pure blackness. She wore a gown of blue silk, with matching slippers. Her appearance changed with her mood, but today she had white hair and golden eyes. The latter had the same intensely curious, birdlike look they always did, and that he would have recognized no matter the color or shape.

“You come alone, Balthazar,” she said. “Why?”

He didn’t bother with excuses. “The others are dead. Victor escaped. But I brought you this in his stead.” He held out the urn. “From the Barbican itself.”

Her golden eyes widened a fraction. “The fire?”

“Yes, my Queen.”

Neblis took the urn in slim fingers, turning it this way and that.

“He was taking it to…” The Antimagus stopped himself from speaking Delilah’s name just in time. “The King’s whore.”

“To free her?”

Balthazar didn’t dare answer.

“Even after all this time…” Neblis’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it. “Poor thing. I wonder if he will come after it?”

“Someone will,” Balthazar said. “If not Victor, the Macydonian invader.”

She looked at him, her gaze impenetrable. “So you would bring them down on me?”

“I…Of course, that was not my intention.” Balthazar tried to control the quaking in his bowels. “If you wish it, I will take it back over the mountains immediately.”

Neblis smiled and Balthazar felt the world right itself again. “No. You did well.” She tapped a nail against one pearly tooth. “I have no unholy bonds to break, but perhaps new ones could be forged. Do you know how to use it?”

“No, but this one does.” Balthazar gave the chains a heave and his captives stumbled forward. Two teenaged boys and a Purified. “He is one of the magi that guarded the fire. See his hands?”

Neblis wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Savages. Make him speak.”

The Purified stared straight through her. His lips were flecked with drool. Balthazar sent a tentative probe of power through the chains. The mind there was fragile as an old eggshell. His palms began to sweat.
Thoughtless!

“You always were too heavy-handed,” Neblis sighed. “Using a cudgel when a gentle slap would suffice. Give him to me. And remove the collar first.”

Balthazar obeyed, letting the Purified sink to the ground at the very rim of the pool. He himself took a step back. The thing that lived in that black hole made the fauna of the lake seem tame and benevolent.

Neblis laid her palms on each side of the Purified’s head. He jerked once, then subsided. But his brown eyes now looked more dreamy than vacant.

“What is your name?” the queen asked, her voice low and musical.

“Mahvar,” he said instantly.

“How are the cuffs forged? What are they made of?”

“Are you the Prophet?”

Neblis shot Balthazar an amused look. “Yes, my son. You can speak to me freely.”

“Praise the Holy Father. How did you break free?”

“What do you mean?” Her hands tightened on his face and he grimaced, but Neblis seemed not to notice.

“I dreamt of your prison. Cold and deep. All I have done was for you, the highest of all mages…”

“Prison?”

“Oh, the wickedness that has been committed in the name of the Holy Father. It shames us all!”

“Where?” Neblis nearly screeched.

Balthazar watched his queen with apprehension. Pinpricks of blood welled in the Purified’s eyes. Balthazar weighed the wrath he would incur by intervening against the loss of their only source of information. He knew she harbored a deep-seated hatred for the so-called Prophet, even greater than Balthazar’s own. But they had both assumed him dead these many years.

“Where is this prison?” Neblis demanded.

“Karnopolis,” the Purified choked out. “Do you not remem—”

His words cut off as she savagely twisted his head to one side.

Balthazar’s queen breathed heavily for a moment, her face flickering among the dozens she could call on at will. It dizzied him to watch it, so he stared at the substance of the pool instead. That too was mesmerizing, in its own way. Layers of darkness, like peering into a tunnel that went down and down and down…

“Balthazar!”

His head snapped up.

“I have a new task for you.” She looked like a pretty dark-eyed girl of Babylon now, a city Neblis had known when it was still a scattering of mud huts on a fertile plain.

“How can I serve, my Queen?” he asked, although he already knew.

“You will bring me Zarathustra. Alive. If he is to be a prisoner, he may as well be mine.” She rose, stepping one delicate slipper over the body of the Purified. “And get rid of that.”

“What of Victor?” Balthazar asked.

“I think he will come to me.” She smiled cheekily, and Balthazar felt a pang of jealousy. “He won’t be able to resist my charms.”

“No man could,” Balthazar muttered.

She peered at him, birdlike again. “Do you love me?”

“You know I do.” His heart ached in his chest as she held his eyes. Her beauty was dizzying, exquisitely painful, like a parchment-thin blade between the ribs. Even when he slept, she filled his dreams. The scent of her, a delicate, honeyed poison.

“Then don’t fail me a second time.”

Neblis paused to pluck a crimson flower, then wandered into the grove. Balthazar watched her until she was lost to his sight. He felt outpaced by events. As though he fought a war on too many fronts to keep track of. Alexander would move soon, but in what direction? The empire tipped on a knife’s edge, and it was Balthazar’s duty to ensure that when it did fall, it went straight into his queen’s lap. If only she hadn’t killed the Purified…But Zarathustra would be an even better substitute. He’d
made
the cursed fire. And Balthazar had his own bone to pick with the old man.

Karnopolis. The last time he had been to the city, he wore the robes of a magi. That had been before the war. Before they cast him out as a heretic. Did any still live who would remember his face? Balthazar very much doubted it. And if he wore the robes again, he would blend in easily with the hundreds of other magi in the city. A jackal among rabbits.

Balthazar lifted the Purified in his arms and contemplated just heaving him over the rim of the pool. In the end, he decided to dispose of the body elsewhere. The lake, perhaps.

Some things were best left undisturbed.