Empire of Dust (25 page)

“Are you saying magic is evil, then? That it's wrong to use?” he asks, drawing Aristotle beneath the leafy branches of an elm tree.

Aristotle shakes his head. “Not necessarily. But neither is it inherently good. It's neutral. It can be a boon to you or a curse. You have benefited from your vision into men's souls, judging whom to trust. Then again, you almost killed Theopompus because you misinterpreted what you saw.”

He hangs his head as Aristotle continues, “There is another kind of Blood Magic that can heal: Earth Blood. That, too, can be beneficial, or it can be used to destroy.”

Alex sighs. “I wish I had that one,” he says, rubbing his left thigh.

“Do not ever wish for what you are not—you will always be disappointed,” Aristotle reprimands. “You have strengthened your leg with clever exercises. You have run with weights on it in the face of tremendous pain. Would you have tested yourself so, mentally and physically, if I had uttered an incantation and miraculously healed it?”

Alex remembers that when planning the attack in the tunnel on the Aesarian Lords he had wished Kat could be there. She could have easily used her magic to infuriate the bees into stinging the enemy. But then he had come up with the idea of building the portable oven with the bellows to burn the bird feathers. He hadn't needed her magic at all. Does he even still need to find the Fountain of Youth and heal himself?

Yes. Aristotle doesn't understand what it's like. “I'm the prince regent,” Alex says, shaking his head. “Everyone looks at me. I am imperfect.”

“Magic,” Aristotle cuts in, “is an illusion. So is perfection.” He wipes rain off his cheek with the back of his hand. “So is power, unless it is the power an individual wields over himself.”

Perhaps, but Alex knows that what an empire needs is a ruler who can manage the illusions of magic,
power,
and
perfection. Only that kind of ruler can bring together people of different languages, cultures, and gods.

Aristotle continues, “Magic is shifty and unreliable, Alexander. It corrupts more than gold and the pleasures of the body. Think of Hagnon selling tax exemptions, of Theo selling girls and boys. Do you want to be like them? It will cause you much more damage than just a weak leg. It will weaken your heart and your mind. I only withheld the knowledge until you were strong enough to survive the world without it.”

He's right
, Alex thinks. History is bursting with examples of kings and queens, warriors and heroes, grasping for riches and power, love and fame, setting the world on fire and ending up in a heap of ashes of their own making. The Trojan War, which consumed all of Greece and Asia for a decade, started because of lust and revenge. The thirst for magic—to be strong and powerful, healed and perfect—must be something like that.

“Where does magic come from?” he asks. He wants to believe Aristotle that magic is dangerous. He
does
believe him. And still, a tickling curiosity—an urgency—courses through him.

“The gods,” Aristotle says, gesturing to the wind and rain and dripping trees. “No one knows the exact source, though it is believed that in the Age of Heroes—the times before Troy—two gods left the heavens to live among mortals, and it is their descendants who exhibit Snake Blood or Earth Blood. You are a direct descendant of one of those gods.”

“A child of the gods,” Alexander repeats, weighing the words and their meaning. Given his mother's reputation as a witch, his divine blood must come from Olympias, though many have said Philip must have magical powers to build up Macedon from a backward group of rebellious chieftains into a world power so quickly.

“You must know, then,” Alex says, picking off a leaf and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, trying to calm the eagerness that thrums within him. “Does my Snake Blood come from Philip or Olympias?”

Aristotle stares at the rain just outside the dripping shelter of the tree, slamming hard into the ground and running in boiling rivulets past their feet. The line like a vertical needle between his eyebrows deepens as it always does whenever he is working out a problem, and in the gloomy light, his eyes look like large, dark holes. He is silent for so long that Alex wonders if he has heard him.

“Teacher?”

Then the man turns to Alex with a gaze that pierces him like iron nails.

“Neither.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“SO,” TIMAEUS SAYS
, his breath catching as he hurries to keep up with Jacob's long strides down the hilly path, “it's really happening.”

“Yes, Tim. It is. Don't tell me you're jealous,” Jacob says with a half grin, turning to face his friend, who is usually a source of entertainment, but lately... Lately he's been looking at Jacob the way he is now, with an intensity in his big bright blue eyes that Jacob can't read.

“Jealous?” The eyes spark with dark amusement. “No. Not jealous. That would not be the word,” Tim says, once again inscrutable.

Jacob shrugs off the bad feeling Tim's voice has left echoing around him, and adjusts his new helmet. Every time he moves he feels as if it might tip right off his head.

Just this morning Lord Ambiorix handed it to him, crowned with the many-branched stag horns Jacob chose to replace the nubby cow horns of a new recruit. He has, in the language of the Aesarian Lords, earned his horns. The Gaul also handed him a bronze lightning bolt to decorate his black leather cape, a symbol of divine power, for having slain the lying, cheating Lord Bastian.

Today Jacob will become a member of the Elder Council, the youngest one ever, privy to all Aesarian secrets, taking the place of the traitor he exposed. The attack by Macedon's army, the day after the Gods' Duel, delayed the rituals. And then the Lords were forced to retreat. But now, finally, the day he's dreamed of for the past months has arrived. And once he has officially become an Elder, he will pursue his hunt for the god, Riel. He knows now that if this secret was something Bastian would kill—and die—for, it
is
the quest that will make Jacob more than just one of the Elders. It will make him indispensable.

And he needs to be indispensable. He needs the Lords' utmost trust. They need to know and believe that he is one of them through and through.

He
needs to know and believe it.

Otherwise, the dark doubts will creep back in again. The ones that have been haunting him ever since Cynane's shackles melted at his touch... The suspicion that it was he who caused the metal to twist and pop open. That it was he who caused the Hemlock Torch to flame red in Timaeus's makeshift forge. That it was he—not Kat and her healing salve—who made his arm heal inexplicably after his trainer for the palace guards, Diodotus, had slashed it in sword practice. That something more was happening when he kissed Kat on the battlefield, and the shuddering sensations of joy and sorrow moved through his body. That
he
was the reason she survived that fatal wound.

The suspicion that he, Jacob of Erissa, a nobody who has risen through the ranks of the Aesarian Lords to become
somebody
, has, all along, possessed Blood Magic.

It's baffling. It's horrifying: that the one thing he has sworn against could be brewing within him. The Brotherhood's entire mission is to rid the world of such magic. It is an evil that cannot be abided. That's what they teach. And he agrees with them.

And yet... His mind wanders as he picks at the stitches in his left biceps suturing the wound from the arrow that sliced through him at the battle of the Pyrrhian fortress. He knows it's healing because it itches.

The sky is a brighter blue than any he has ever seen, the clouds so white they hurt his eyes, belying the dark thoughts swirling within him. Each morning at dawn a glowing fog sweeps up from the Bay of Corinth far below like a violent incoming tide, churning over fields, rolling up hills, and throwing itself against the spur of craggy gray cliffs before burning off in the heat of the sun.

After escaping the Pyrrhian fortress through abandoned mine tunnels, after a long march and a choppy sea voyage, they finally reached the estate of a retired Aesarian Lord outside Delphi. But the luxury of the palatial house—hot baths, soft beds, fine wine—and its incredible view of the lush emerald valleys and shimmering bay below, were worth it. Plus, as Gideon explained, Delphi and its surrounding area is neutral territory. No one—soldier or civilian—can harm another person under penalty of death for breaking the peace of the god Apollo who owns these sacred lands. There will be no worries about Macedonian armies here.

He hasn't been to Delphi itself yet, though he has seen the merry caravans of pilgrims coming and going on the road outside Lord Imbrus's estate. High Lord Gideon has said they will go to sacrifice there and receive advice from the oracle at some point in the future.

“I just wonder...” Tim goes on, still short of breath, “if this is really what you want. Really what's best for
you.
”

“What exactly are you implying?” Jacob snaps. He can't help but recall the way Tim looked at him when the torch burned red. The way he covered for him about Cynane's escape. For all his silliness, Tim is clever, and sly. Is it possible he has guessed the same thing that Jacob has guessed about himself?

“Oh,” Tim says nonchalantly. “I never like to
imply
anything. It's just that as an Elder, that girl Katerina and her luscious, er, assets—” here he nudges Jacob playfully in the ribs “—will be even further than ever from your grasp. Elders aren't supposed to marry, you know...”

The back of Jacob's neck prickles with anger. “It's best not to speak of things you don't know anything about,” he says, more harshly than he intended. He can't think about Kat. Not now. Maybe not ever. That is a wound that will never heal.

“Don't I? Because I think I'm the only one who does...” Tim has stopped walking and cocks his head at Jacob like a curious dog.

And in that instant, Jacob realizes he's right.
Tim knows
.

And if Tim thinks Jacob is hiding Blood Magic, then Jacob has even more to worry about than he thought. Because despite his often annoying antics, Tim is almost never wrong.

“Jacob, I am your friend. I only want to help you,” Tim says, resuming his merry looks.

“I'm sorry,” Jacob says, his throat hoarse.

As they pass between the narrow pine trees, Jacob sees High Lord Gideon rowing toward them in a small boat. Beside him sits a goat, grunting quietly.

“Well,” Tim huffs, “we're here. Have fun, Lord Jacob.” He bows elaborately, turns on his heel and goes, leaving Jacob with an uneasy feeling.

Gideon pulls up next to a small pier and Jacob clambers in. “Greetings, High Lord,” he says, taking the oars from him.

“Greetings, Jacob,” the older man says, eyeing the new helmet with approval. “Very impressive horns.”

Jacob grins and starts rowing. The bulge of his muscles against the strain of the oars soothes his disquieted mind somewhat. The brown-and-white spotted goat chews its cud and looks at him curiously, and it reminds Jacob eerily of Tim. He almost laughs.

The narrow river winds through meadows ripe with grain and orchards of gnarled, gray-barked olive trees with silver-green leaves. Jacob breaks out in a sweat as the sun beats down. He feels it tickling the back of his neck, moistening the tunic beneath his leather breastplate.

“Up ahead,” the High Lord says, standing so suddenly the tiny boat rocks wildly for a moment, and pointing to a granite outcropping around a bend. “Take us inside.”

Jacob angles the boat inside the large cave mouth where he is swallowed by a blessed coolness.

The High Lord bends over his flint and tinder set, pulls a resin-soaked torch out of a leather bag and sets it ablaze. “Back there,” he says, gesturing to a yawning opening in the back of the cave. Jacob obediently grips the oars and pulls, sliding the boat deeper into the cavern's belly. It smells wet in here, the dank kind of wet never exposed to the cleansing effects of sun or fresh air. As he maneuvers them into a narrow corridor, the dipping and rising of his oars echo strangely, and Gideon's torchlight slides like liquid gold across moist stone walls. Jacob wonders briefly if the River Styx is like this.

Up ahead are two passages and he pauses, oars outstretched like a bird's wings, listening carefully to the sound of rushing water. Is there a waterfall somewhere back here? Are they going to tumble over it? Will his initiation be contingent on surviving the fall?

“Continue down the passage to the right,” Gideon commands. After a time, the corridor opens up to another cave on their right. Gideon hops off on a sandy beach, reaches back, and grabs the goat. Jacob pulls the boat onto the sand. In a few moments, Gideon has set several blazing torches in iron wall sconces. He takes a large wineskin out of his pouch, turns to Jacob and says, “Drink this,” in a voice that permits no refusal.

Jacob hesitates only a second. He drinks deeply and tastes something that reminds him of the wild mushrooms he and Kat used to collect in the forest outside Erissa. Mixed in with honeyed wine are lumps of something chewy, like gristle, that taste of rich earth and dark places and summer rain.

Jacob waits, his heart stuttering a bit. The sweat on his body has chilled in the coolness of the cave, and he tries to suppress a shiver. He doesn't want Gideon to think he's afraid, even if he is.

Something strange is already happening to his body. He feels as if he's floating, hovering, no longer bound by the weight of flesh and bone. The enormous shadows of the two horned men seem to leap and move on the torch-lit walls like wild animals, and for a moment, he forgets that
he
is one of them.

He's only vaguely aware of Gideon, chanting loudly in a language Jacob doesn't understand, and then a pitiful protesting bleat. Gideon has slaughtered the goat. Jacob hears the sound of its blood gushing into a bowl in the shadows. He tries to focus his vision.

Gideon rises, dips his finger into the bowl of blood, and starts to draw figures on the smooth cave wall, large human forms towering over small ones.

“In the beginning of all time,” Gideon says, the cave adding a new timbre to his already deep voice, “the gods created the world and filled it with mortals. This we all know.”

Jacob stares at the figures. A trick of the torchlight makes them appear to be moving. They seem to march across the vast expanse of rock. In wonder, Jacob stretches an arm out, and with the tip of his finger, he brushes the still wet lines of blood. The liquid is hot, but not the heat of a recently stilled heart. Hot like a pot brought to boil.

Jacob cries out—but he has no voice, no throat, no breath in which to make sound. He is a stick figure drawn of blood flickering on the cave wall. The world is a palette of reds, grays, and browns, bumpy and cracked and glistening wet in patches. And still, Gideon's voice continues, though Jacob no longer hears him with his ears. The words seem to well in his chest, sewing him into the story—and then the world cracks open.

He is in a fertile mountain valley crowded with people, and in front of them a blinding light blazes like a thousand setting suns. Jacob instinctively closes his eyes, but the light barely dims. From somewhere within the radiance, he hears a voice of bronze, and thunder reverberates through his body.

HOW GREAT THE WICKEDNESS OF MAN. HOW GREAT THE EVIL OF THEIR HEARTS. IMPIOUS. SELFISH. CONTEMPTIBLE IN EVERY WAY. WE WILL WIPE FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH THE HUMAN RACE WE HAVE CREATED—FOR WE REGRET THAT WE HAVE MADE THEM.

The voice is not comprised of one, but of many, each one perfectly harmonizing with the next to create the hammer of sound that pounds down on Jacob.

There's a white flash, and the air around him is filled with a sharp smell—similar to the smell before a summer storm. He knows without knowing how that a bolt of lightning has struck the rocks in the valley below. A rushing roar fills his ears, and water gushes up in a towering fountain.

The spray of water continues to grow, and Jacob wonders if it will eventually rise all the way up to the stars and never return to earth.

As he stares into the sky, a wave hits his knees. Looking down quickly, he sees the fountain flooding from its base, its thirsty fingers stretching across the valley.

Jacob turns to run, but it's too late. A jet of water hits him on the back, pushing him down. He struggles up, fighting the swirling waters. The last thing he hears are the screams of panic-stricken people around him cut short as the deepening waters leap over them all in a fatal surge.

Suddenly Jacob is next to Gideon again in the cave, though the wall before him has disappeared, and the flooded plain stretches out to meet the horizon. “And so,” the High Lord intones, “the gods created a deluge to wash the world of evil, and with it, the Age of Heroes ended. This all nations remember.”

Jacob watches as the cavern ceiling morphs into a sky, where the moon and sun circle dizzyingly. When he looks around, he sees the flood from before rapidly receding to reveal an earth barren except for a small geyser at the spot from which the column of water gushed. A moment later, the earth bursts into bloom, then snow, then bloom again, as the night flickers in and out, in and out. The geyser becomes a spring in the center of a pond, and a village begins to be constructed around it.

“At first,” High Lord Gideon continues, “the people of the Eastern Mountains remembered that the fountain's waters had once washed away an entire Age, and humans were forbidden from drinking it. They knew it to be the remnant of the gods' anger, knew that it still had the power to kill all that is human. But as time went on, man forgot that no mortal should touch the fountain, and they began to drink.”

Jacob watches as the people inhabiting the village begin to stand taller. They become more muscular, healed from all pain and illness, healed even from the ravages of age. Children run and laugh near the pond, and at one point, Jacob sees a man with a flowing white beard pick up a boulder that ten Olympians would have been unable to lift.

An ache begins to ripple through Jacob from the sheer beauty of the people and their village. It all seems so good. Watching the inhabitants swim through the fountain's crystal waters, a thirst tickles the back of his throat.