Byzantium's Crown (4 page)

"Have to check that, sir." One started to loose his knots.

Set take them, were Alexa's men drunk? Where were they?

"Ride!" Marric slapped Alexa's horse. It galloped down toward the harbor. Two mounted men rode out from the shadows after her.

Marric leapt for his own horse. He kicked one of the guards brutally in the face, made his horse rear, and laughed as the other men leapt free of the dancing, lethal hooves.

"Hold!" someone shouted behind him.

"Hail!" Marric yelled and grabbed the reins of his pack horse. As his enemies ringed him, he drew sword to fend them off, holding both horse's reins in his left hand.

"I am Marric," he gasped, "rightful emperor in my father's name. Stand off!"

One man hesitated, then moved in beside him. When another guard pressed the attack, the newcomer struck him down.

"You've killed a comrade, soldier, but saved a prince—and the prince is grateful. Ride with me!" The man's face lit at Marric's words.

There were guards barring the gateway. Irene's security was terribly efficient. But they rode the watchers down and pounded along the road to the harbor where Audun Bearmaster waited.

Why was Audun their ally? Marric wondered. He had brought Marric a white cub. Like Alexander, Audun had always spoken of a proper order to things. Slight enough reason for risking his life and those of his men, if that was what drove him to ally with what might easily be a losing faction. Certainly Audun was rich: no reward that Alexa could offer would move him. But Marric had no time to ponder. He rode on even faster.

Now he could see the charred stubs of what had been tall trees. Some trunks still glowed red. They rode faster and faster as passersby screamed and dodged. Marric used the flat of his blade to beat his horse to greater speed.

"Look behind you!" cried the man who had joined him.

Several of Alexa s men ranged themselves behind Marric, preparing to secure his escape with their lives. That was only good service, Marric thought. Still, he hesitated, unwilling to let them throw their lives away. Just as he opened his mouth to shout at them to flee, Alexa dropped back. Her hood had fallen from her hair, which streamed behind her like night clouds in a high wind. She drew her knife and rode toward the pack horse.

"Get away!" Marric screamed at her.

"We need time, brother," she gasped, and sawed fiercely at the ropes binding the rug and Ctesiphon to the horse. "We'll buy it this way."

Irene's men rode toward her. She waited, clearly calculating her moment. When her enemies could no longer rein their horses aside, she pushed the rug off the pack saddle into their path. Even through the uproar Ctesiphon's death agony reached their ears.

"Now we ride!" Alexa screamed and kicked her flagging mount.

Marric spurred even with her. Bile suddenly flooded his mouth; he spat it to one side. Another damned senseless killing: Alexa was too naive in her death dealing for his liking.

"Why?" They careened into a narrow side street. It would still take them to the waterfront, but make pursuit more difficult. "I thought we had agreed—"

"Let Irene hurt!" Alexa cried. She glared at Marric. Her face was very white in the moonlight; her teeth, biting her lip as she concentrated on keeping her seat, were even whiter and very vicious. "You hate her, too. And he was her blood, not ours, never ours," she growled.

When they reached the harbor, Alexa half-tumbled, half-swung down. Marric dismounted only a second later and caught her against him, holding her as he might a lover. "Never, never go against my orders again, my sister."

"Your orders? Am I not Isis-on-Earth?"

"My Isis, not a vicious little cutthroat!"

"I'm glad he's dead. I wish I could slay Irene, watch horses stamp on her, blot her out—"

Marric shook her hard, then slapped her. Cold, unforgiving rage flared in her eyes. With a hawklike scream Alexa drew her dagger and went for Marric. Her other hand moved in a strange, deft pass. It was unlike any knife fight countermove he had ever seen. He had been wrong. Alexa was no naive killer. And she hadn't been content merely to dabble in half-forgotten rituals. Like Irene, she had sought more, and been corrupted by it. If only he'd known that earlier!

Not wishing to hurt her or be stabbed, Marric had all he could do to hold her off. And the soldiers were gaining on them.

More shouts, and on all sides, hoof beats. Over all of them bommed a great, furry, accented voice. "Lady, lady! To her, my brothers!"

Then there were guards, there were more and more soldiers, a whole troop attacking at once. Alexa turned, abandoning her rage at her brother in the face of this greater danger. They fought back to back until the swirl of battle separated them. Then she dropped her dagger and raised both hands. Light rose from them. She chanted, and Marric shuddered at her words. So magic did remain in their line, but weakened so that it turned from blessing into taint. Marric would have traded all he had to be spared that knowledge, or knowing that Alexa had succumbed—or sensing the attraction that her magic held for him.

But too many men assailed them. Too many. One by one, Alexa's servants fell even as the voice from the dock boomed orders over and over. More feet pounded in from a different direction. Marric saw Varangians and started to give up hope. Irene would have had their formal oaths by now. He swirled his cloak at one man's eyes to blind him, dodged his ax, and cut him down.

His arm was tiring; the next engagement would most likely be his last. Blood flowed down his arm, side, and legs from tiny wounds. They were not serious in themselves, but they drained his strength even as their pain sharpened his senses. The wind had never been so fresh or the salt tang sweeter. The moon shone, a sharp perfect sickle in the heavens, reflected in the water. Marric's city, his world. He loved it fiercely.

Then Alexa shrieked, and the light about her was quenched. Hacking down the man he fought, Marric started toward her. She lay on the ground, surrounded by soldiers and roughly clad strangers.

Marric saw himself, covered with blood, reflected in the water. The druid! he thought, and screamed in pain, rage, and despair. Just let him hold her dead form in his arms or die avenging her. He leapt across a dying Varangnian. Where was she? And to think he had struck her! Fighting on with insane strength, Marric reached the place where Alexa had lain. The men backed off from him, preparing to rash him as one.

Her body was gone.

With a final snarl, Marric turned at bay. The grief-maddened strength flowed out of him with his blood, and he was moving slowly, so very slowly. The noise behind him was a torment. The moonlight hurt his eyes. He whirled to face a danger to his left. But as he turned, a sword hilt smashed down on his skull.

Marric's world exploded in flaming agony. He spun, astounded. He had not thought that anything remained after death. Why hadn't the priests warned him that one reached the horizon through a world of smoldering trees, screaming men, and devouring pain?

Alexa, wait! he thought into the darkness.

Someone was moaning. Was it the soldier who had defended him? Marric must help. He struggled to wake from the safety of unconsciousness. The sickening stench of sweat, mold, and carrion made him gag; and the moans added to his misery. Whoever it was could not control his suffering like a man. Then he realized he was the one moaning. Shame scalded him, rousing him fully.

With awareness came the beginning of fear. Marric lay in total darkness. Had that blow to the skull blinded him? He thrashed his legs and jackknifed his body until his face scraped the dank stone of a cell wall. One arm was raised stiffly above his head, secured by a wrist shackle and chain too short to let him lie at ease. His arm felt as if molten lead had been poured from his wrist to his armpit, stinging each separate wound. He tugged at the chain weakly. If the iron were as corroded as this place was vile, perhaps he could snap it. But he was too weak, and he could not see what he was doing. Trapped away from the light, unable to see! In panic Marric squeezed his eyes shut until lights burst like flaming naphtha behind his lids. Did blinded men ever forget what light was like? He forced his eyes open. Gradually shadow separated from shadow. The edge of the wooden door to his cell glowed with rot. This grisly light revealed to Marric the curve of a stone wall, the low arch of the ceiling, and dark splotches of filth on a floor littered with musty straw. Dark blood stained his body. They had taken most of his clothing, and he shivered.

Again he tried his chain. This time fire leapt out of the links. A bondspell! He would believe anything now. Stung by the magic fire's pain, Marric abandoned his attempts to break the chain. The fire of the bondspell faded and he lay again in the dark.

From the pain of his wounds, no one had tended him. He was giddy with fever. He blacked out for a time.

When he woke, he was disoriented. There was . . . there had to be a reason why he was in chains. Had the rebels trapped him shamefully in the governor's residence? Back in Byzantium, the wits would make epigrams: The prince whom banquets, not battles, conquered. Then he remembered. Marric lay pent in a dungeon of Byzantium, buried deep and bearing so foul an aspect that he would have challenged any man who claimed the place existed to prove in blood that he did not lie.

Memory flooded over him like blood from a slit throat. He struggled against a keen of anguish. Why amuse any guard who might be eavesdropping? His tears made the shadows shimmer, and Marric forced himself not to sob. Alexa, Alexa! Why had they ever fought over Ctesiphon? They would have been free, if only they had not fought. His life was worthless now that Alexa was gone, and it did not matter that she had loosed Ctesiphon to fall into the path of the soldiers' horses, or that she had laughed as he died. It even did not matter that she had drawn steel on Marric himself, or that she was no stranger to magic best left untouched. None of that mattered against his memory of her fall.

Alexa was dead. Marric let his chin fall into the moldering straw of his pallet. And he was Irene's prisoner. Could he starve himself, or would the fever in his wounds suffice to kill him? Despair made him even weaker.

Maybe his struggle had been in vain all along. Alexander had been a good man, but he was no priest. He had been unfortunate, too, in his sons: Ctesiphon was no man; Marric was no priest and no emperor. The line was unhealthy; best it die out. So, when Irene killed Marric, she would end the entire line of Antony, of Alexander, of the pharaohs themselves. Marric's amendment had come too late, and been denied. But it was the empire that would pay for his negligence.

After years of striking bargains with the gods or yawning through rituals, Marric found himself praying passionately to Osiris—May He turn His face toward His son!—that he could retain some measure of integrity. Prayer had never come with such force or simplicity.

If the fever didn't kill him, perhaps he could struggle against his chains until the bondspell's agony stopped his heart. Death would come soon. He lay back, eyes rolling upward. Then he saw the darkness, like a cloud of ebon smoke, hovering beneath the room's low arch.

"Come out!" he croaked. By Horus, was all the city corrupted by foul magic? Or had Irene simply left this guard to turn his hopelessness into utter torture? The blackness drew nearer, sending out tendrils that promised release . . . He could draw them into himself, be free, just accept . . .

"I will not surrender," he hissed. "Begone." He faced down the black haze as if it were a human enemy. He then sensed another promise . . . power, blood to slake his grief if only . . . No, he would not be bought either.

If it were Marric's fate to die, so be it. But he would at least die cleanly, not enthralled by Irene's demon. Having made that decision, Marric fell into exhausted sleep.

The screech of outraged, resisting metal woke him. Shadows reeled as men thrust in first a torch, and then their heads and shoulders. Marric forced himself not to cower. Regardless of what misbegotten sorceries Irene used, she could only command his death, not his self-betrayal.

"On your feet, prince!"

"He's lazy, or drunk. Can't move without his slaves to stir him."

"Or his catamites. Maybe he likes to play rough, Demetrius. Hoist him up."

Both guards laughed. Alexander would have sent such offal to labor in the mines, not in the city's prisons. How could such prisons have existed during his father's reign?

Perhaps they had been kept for the vilest of felons, men who violated their mothers, deliberate parricides, traitors—breathing carrion. But now Irene had cast a prince into them.

As the guards, still jesting foully, manhandled Marric onto his feet and bound his arms behind his back, he summoned all his remaining strength. He would not threaten. He would not fall. He would not plead. He would deny them the chance to kick and jeer at him. They forced an iron bar between his arms to brace them, and it grated painfully against the untreated slashes on his arms and sides. He did not cry out. And he would not stagger when they brought him before Irene.

That was where they were taking him. He was as sure of that as of his own heartbreak. Perhaps the sight of him would enrage her so that she would order him killed.

A shove at the base of Marric's spine forced him into a passage lit by smoky torches. The orange light and violent shadows spun about him. Water trickled down the walls. Even the immense beams that prevented this den from crashing down on the rats and human refuse that scrabbled about in it were moist and phosphorescent, sagging with rot.

Walking the dark passage, Marric imagined through a feverish haze that at the end would stand a throne of wood, gleaming in decay, surrounded by a nimbus of evil light. There, guarded by jackals, decked in jewelry looted from a hundred tombs, secure in powers he dared not think of, Irene would rule as queen over the dead.

That was not Empire. True Empire lay in the sunlight where the Golden Horn gleamed, and the blue water flowed cleanly beneath the keels of great ships. Marric couldn't have loved it half as much as it deserved. But he would try to remember it as he died.