The Dark Lord (96 page)

"Then..." The Queen struggled with a clenching pain in her gut.
He is telling the truth!

"I baited annihilation," the sorcerer said mournfully. "I opened the door just a hair, just a thin crack, and snatched power and glory and knowledge from dread chaos' domain. But I drew attention in the briefest of moments—in a slice of time so small no human mind could catch, or follow, or measure its passing—and now the door is closed, but it is known, and watched relentlessly." A hollow laugh echoed. "The watchers at the threshold do not tire or wander or sleep. They have eternity at their beck and call and they are very hungry."

"But while you exist, the door is closed," Zoë said tensely, pushing the Queen aside. "You are holding it closed against them."

"Yes," echoed out of the darkness. A few faint gray sparks began to drift among the pillars, shedding a corpse-light upon stone faces. "I disturbed a delicate balance and what once remained closed of its own nature yearns to open fully."

"Can the door be truly closed again?" Zoë regretted the question as soon as the words escaped her lips.

A mocking silence was her only answer. The Queen looked down, unwilling to venture further words.

"You can die, then?" The Boar's voice rumbled out of the dim shadows. Shahr-Baraz had quietly taken a seat on the floor beside Khalid—who sat clutching scabbard to breast, barely breathing, eyes screwed shut—and Odenathus, who watched the Queen with a queer, troubled expression. "You are afraid not only of your own oblivion, but what will come after."

The silence shifted, charging with malice and anger. The Boar pursed his lips, thinking. After a moment, he smiled faintly. "You are a canny old snake," the king said, "but secrets are hard to keep. Shall you tell these children, or shall I?"

"Tell them what?" snapped a cold voice. Twin points of pale light gleamed in the shadows.

"Tell them about the Roman. The Roman and the sea."

The pale gleams blinked once, then twice. Shahr-Baraz laughed softly.

"Our Lord of the Serpents," the Boar began, voice rumbling with ill-disguised humor, "does not like the water. If memory serves, he dreads even to ride in a ship. He asked me to build a bridge of earth and saplings just to cross the Propontis. He took to the upper air—on a mount I've had the misfortune to ride myself—rather than cross the sea on a fine, swift boat. Once, once he was forced to swim in the salt sea for a dozen heartbeats—he still bears those scars on face and body like the gouges of a burning iron. No, he does not like the deep waters."

The twin points of light flared, glittering like the edge of a blade catching the moonlight.

"Shall I say on?" Shahr-Baraz matched gazes with the thing in the shadows. "I shall, I think. If you are outraged by the truth, you can surely destroy us all."

The Boar gave the others a calm, almost amused look. The Queen marveled at his equanimity and in the crystalline moment while their eyes met, she realized he was entirely free from fear.
Has he ever been touched by fear?
she wondered.
Does he even know how it feels, how it tastes?

"There is a Roman wizard," Shahr-Baraz continued, nose wrinkling like his namesake. "And he is very strong. By my eyes, as strong as our old snake here. They met, they fought, during the fall of Constantinople." The king flashed a smirk at the darkness. "A draw. We have not met him yet on this campaign. They are holding him back, waiting, I think, for the right moment to strike us unawares."

The Boar lifted his chin questioningly at the shadows. "Is he alone?"

"No." The twin points of light thinned to narrow slits. "There was a witch at his side."

"A witch?" The Queen's eyebrows rose in surprise.
What kind of witch? One like us?

"Yes," hissed the sorcerer. "But Arad was by
my
side. Still we drew even."

Shahr-Baraz nodded, pleased to have learned so much. "Now Arad is not your only servant—Odenathus and the Queen are your allies—there will be four against two. Will this suffice if you meet again?"

The sorcerer did not answer and the King of Kings nodded to himself again. "I am not a wizard," he said in a contemplative tone. "But I think I understand the matter of this door of stone. By its nature, a door is intended to
open
, and any wayward, wind, or current of the air, may shift such a fragile balance."

Both the Queen and the king looked to the shadows and found the gleaming eyes dulled nearly to invisibility. Shahr-Baraz hid another mirthless smile, giving the Queen a challenging look.

"This Roman," she hazarded, watching the kings eyes, "his powers are much like yours, Lord of the Ten Serpents?"

"Yesss..." A hissing trill spiraled away into silence. "I feel him in the hidden world, a storm around which all currents twist and run awry."

"Do they touch the door?" Shahr-Baraz's voice was keen and sharp.

"They will," Dahak whispered, something of his hidden fear surfacing again. "If he lives."

"He is growing stronger?" Zenobia forced herself to voice the question.
Father Sun crush this serpent and free my soul from helping him!
"What will happen if he finds the door of stone?"

A cough of laughter answered. "Men are curious creatures, far worse than cats. What ape has ever failed to plunge his hand into a dark hole, scratching for something sweet?"

The Queen looked at Shahr-Baraz questioningly. "Could we tell this Roman the truth?"

"We will not!" Dahak surged out of the shadows, sending a cloud of gray sparks rushing away from his advance. Wild shadows flared on the walls. "The moment he perceives the door, the watchers beyond the threshold will become aware of
him
and their thoughts will crowd his mind with visions and enticing dreams. Even a moment's desire or hesitation or wayward intent on his childish, reckless part and the seals will fail."

The sorcerer stood over them, sullen black flame licking around his outline. He seemed ready to strike them both down where they sat. Shahr-Baraz raised a quieting hand.

"We will not tell him," the king said. "Despite all this, I have no love for Rome."

The Boar stood, holding out a hand for the Queen. Tentatively, she accepted, finding his palm warm and dry and immensely comforting. Shahr-Baraz glared at the sorcerer. "You should have told me this before. We have wasted time..." The king paused, canting his head to one side. "Wait a moment. You urged me to attack Egypt—what were you seeking here? A tool? A weapon?"

Dahak's lip curled into a sneer. "Nothing. A dry well."

Shahr-Baraz gave the sorcerer a level stare in return. "Are we stronger for all this?"

"No," Dahak allowed, sneer fading into a scowl. "No, I am beginning to tire."

"Can we wait," the Queen said, hating each movement of her lips, "until you regain your strength?"

The sorcerer shook his head, a look of equal disgust playing across sharp, inhuman features.

"Then we must press them hard while we can," Shahr-Baraz said, pursing his lips. "Why do you need the fleet? Why this army? You could summon one of your horrors to fly you to the enemy. End this with a single, swift blow."

"He will not be alone," Dahak growled. "I recognized him when we fought. He will be well protected, surrounded by fanatical Legions, mewed up in their strongest fortress."

"Why?" The Boar made a grunting sound. "Who is he?"

"Their Emperor's brother," Dahak replied sourly. "And he has... clever toys. Things we lack and have no time to make."

Toys?
The Queen searched her memory, remembering something...
Yes, a disk of gears and interlocking wheels; he called it a
duradarshan
, but not a toy...
In that moment, Zenobia remembered something else, something the sorcerer had said and she felt a faint gleam of hope flare in her secret heart. She almost looked to see if there were a window opening into the chamber, then caught herself and fixed her attention on the King of Kings.

"Prince Maxian?" The Boar sounded surprised and thoughtful. "Isn't he a priest of the temple of Asklepius the Healer? Hmm... if his powers turn towards yours, he would be a puissant foe. And he
will
be guarded by armies."

Dahak grimaced, but said nothing.

"Well," Shahr-Baraz turned to Odenathus and Khalid, who were listening with wide eyes. "We
do
need the fleet then and quickly too. And we must freight an army, one strong enough to fight through to Rome if we must." The king's eyes twinkled. "I've a thought about that..."

Zenobia turned away from the discussion, sick and consumed with loathing.
Our freedom was only moments away and now we choose to place the collar on our own neck?

We must,
Zoë answered, though her helpless anger was even greater than her aunt's.
What choice do we have, if the world is to live?

The Queen's humor did not improve. The truth was tasted of ashes.

"Next window." Galen slumped sideways in his chair, face puffy with fatigue. "Next window."

The telecast shuddered and hummed, the rushing sound of spinning gears and wheels filling the room. The Emperor watched listlessly, forcing his mind to comprehend and classify each image as the device jumped and flickered. "Next..."

The scene suspended in the burning disk flashed and another section of sandstone wall came into view. Square windows bisected by iron bars drifted by. Galen could see people moving about within, sitting at low writing tables or shuffling baskets of scrolls from place to place.
Business is business in Egypt,
he thought glumly.
Regardless of who sits on the throne of the Two Lands.

"Wait!" The Emperor squinted—this window was larger than most. A woman stood framed by a windowsill, swinging open a pair of wooden shutters. For an instant, it seemed she met the Emperor's eyes through the burning lens, but then she turned away. Galen frowned in surprise, seeing she wore an elegant, yet archaic costume, more reminiscent of old Egyptian statuary than any recent fashion he knew of. "Who is this?"

The two thaumaturges seated beside the device shook their heads slightly.

"Can you show me the room? Do you feel the Serpent close by?" The Emperor continued to watch the woman speaking—there was another figure, perhaps two, in the room—he could see an elbow and someone's hand gesticulating.

"He is not..." The elder of the two Roman thaumaturges concentrated. "Not that I can sense."

Galen bit his thumb, considering the Egyptian woman's striking profile.
A Queen? Where did the Persians find a Queen of old Egypt? Hmm... is that the jeweled hilt of a Persian cavalry sword on a man's belt?

"Look inside," the Emperor decided. "Let us take a small risk."

"A risk of what?" A husky, tired voice intruded. Galen looked over his shoulder. Maxian stood in the doorway of the library, draped in gray and black, his hair unkempt and stringy.

"Max, come sit." Galen rose, shaking a cramp out of his leg. He took his brother's hand and led him to a couch against the wall. In the telecast, the mysterious woman continued her discussion, entirely ignorant of the distant, spying eye looking over her smooth white shoulder. Maxian sat with a sigh, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

"Bring food," Galen said to one of the servants hovering outside the door. The Emperor turned to the thaumaturges and scribes. "Rest for a moment. Go down to the kitchens and get something to eat; cheese, kippers or oiled bread. There may be some minted goose or flamingo left."

Maxian seemed to have fallen asleep by the time everyone had shuffled out and Galen could turn to him again. The Emperor smiled faintly, feeling a great sense of compassion for his younger brother—who seemed so old, narrow face lined with fatigue, his hair a tumbled mass of oily strands, hands stained with rust and oil and countless tiny scratches. Galen sat thinking, forehead resting in his hands, trying to remember if he had ever been so exhausted in the Legion. There had been a time in Pannonia...
I think not,
he grumbled to himself.
Marching and fighting was easy, compared to this slow death by tiny, pecking bites.

"What were you looking at?" Maxian spoke, eyes still closed.

"The palace of the governor of Egypt," Galen said, leaning back himself. The wall was blessedly cool against his back. "I believe the Persian commander has taken up residence there. We're peering in the windows to see if we can spy out what they intend to do next."

The prince laughed, an honest sound, filled with weary mirth. "Momma would whip your behind with a strap for such rude behavior, if she were alive to catch you."

"She would." Galen snorted. "How are you?"

Maxian grunted, raising a hand and making a dismissive motion. "I live. The work in Florentia is complete. Only interior fittings remain—chairs, windows, floors. There are three-dozen men eager to try their hand at flight." He opened his eyes, fixing Galen with a fierce stare. "We are almost ready."

"Good." The Emperor looked away, unable to meet the accusation in his brother's smudged brown eyes. "Good. The fleet is ready, Lord Alexandros is ready... there are other Legions coming, but I've not heard—yet—when they will reach Rome."

"Do we know which way the enemy will move?" Maxian rubbed a fine-boned hand across his face and the stubbled, patchy beard vanished. He smoothed back his hair and the grease and oil faded. Exhaustion dropped away, leaving him bright-eyed and alert. "What have you found?"

Galen watched his brother with open disgust as the younger man stepped lightly to the telecast. The prince did not bother to mutter or make an arcane sign—the disks and gears shuddered, blazing with hissing flame as the device sprang to life. "Show me the Bruchion," Maxian commanded, "and what we looked upon before."

The Emperor suppressed a start of surprise—the difference in clarity and acuity between Maxian's command of the device and the Legion thaumaturges was no less than night and day—staring into the distant room at a shallow angle. The Queen now sat in a swan-backed chair, legs curled under her, brilliant blue eyes sparkling as she watched a handful of men argue over a map.