Брайан Макклеллан - Blood of Empire

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His palm slipped off the wound. He tried to put it back, barely able to see through the hazy mist in his eyes.

To his shock, Ichtracia shifted in his arms. It was slow, gradual, and he might not have felt it if he didn’t see her hand suddenly fall out of her pocket. She was wearing one of her hidden gloves, still attached to her vest by several strings. The glove was black with blood. She tugged weakly, trying to free the glove, then seemed to give up. Her body sagged. Michel tore the strings and clutched at her hand, pressing the gloved fingers against her own wound. “Come on! You can stop the bleeding!”

Michel felt a firm hand suddenly grasp him by the shoulder. He was torn away from Ichtracia and turned toward a dragonman, who, staring down at Michel, seemed about to toss him aside. Michel tried to struggle, looking back toward Ichtracia. The other hand fell from her pocket, wearing a glove.

The tips of Ichtracia’s fingers twitched.

A roar filled Michel’s ears. Heat pricked at his face like the embers of a fire, and he suddenly found himself unhanded. He wrapped his arms around himself to try to stop his trembling as he was buffeted by unseen forces.

Within moments, nothing remained of Sedial’s guards. Soldiers, dragonmen, Privileged. At least two dozen people had been turned to ash in an instant. He let out a gasp and dropped back to his knees beside Ichtracia. He patted her cheek, then checked her pulse. He could feel nothing.

No conscious thought propelled him forward. With a surge of strength, Michel scooped his arms beneath Ichtracia and lifted her to his chest. Slowly, one leg at a time, he got his feet beneath him. He hesitated, only for a moment, staring at the unknown glow of oblivion. In two strides, he stepped through the portal and into the godstone.

Michel stepped into a deafening silence. He was in a room of gray brick whose dimensions seemed to shift between blinks – the ceiling high, then low; the walls near, then far. Three glowing doors hovered in the air at a constant distance from one another, providing something for Michel’s mind to grasp onto. Equidistant between them was a spot of the blackest black Michel had ever seen. It tugged at his eye, at once revolting and pleasing, hanging suspended above the ground. It couldn’t have been much bigger than an apple.

Michel took a step forward, trying to think through his disorientation. There was something wrong with this place – something that pressed on the edges of his mind and flickered across his vision, yet he could not place it. It took him several moments to realize that no color existed here, that he could only see black, white, and gray. But that wasn’t what was driving him mad.

He took another step, trying to remember his purpose. Beneath his feet, the brick felt spongy and loose. He smiled at the sensation, bouncing himself up and down on the balls of his feet. He looked down at Ichtracia’s blood-soaked body. It seemed to weigh nothing. He couldn’t recall why he had brought her here, or why he cared.

It took several more moments before he realized that they were not alone. Two figures stood on either side of the blackest black. They faced each other, their bodies frozen, their eyes locked. Michel could hear words, slow and muted, as if through a thick wall. He strained to hear them and in the effort of that focus saw their lips moving.

“You can’t waste it,” Ka-Sedial said.

A faint flicker of surprise registered in the back of Michel’s head as Ka-poel answered him aloud, “And yet I won’t let you take it.”

“You have no choice. It cannot be wasted,” Sedial replied. “We are here. The power must be seized. Neither of us can imagine the consequences of leaving without it.” His frozen body seemed to lean forward ever so slightly. “You don’t have to oppose me, child. This rite of power is older than Kresimir. Blood is meant to be spilled. It is meant to be used . We can share it.” He moved closer to the blackest black.

A bead of sweat rolled down Ka-poel’s brow and dripped from her chin. “I don’t need more power. I have no use for it.”

“Everyone has a use for power.” Sedial moved backward a fraction of an inch. “You and I. We split it between us, as Kresimir split the power with his siblings. We can do great things.” He trembled slightly, moving back even more.

Ka-poel’s eyes suddenly flicked toward Michel. In the flash of an instant his warping reality seemed to stabilize, and he remembered the reason for the tears on his cheeks. “You can’t be here!” Ka-poel told him. “It will kill you!”

“Your sister,” Michel gasped. “She…” He couldn’t finish, lifting Ichtracia’s body with all his might, offering it toward Ka-poel. There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Ka-Sedial suddenly surged forward, his frozen body stopping within inches of the blackest black. A snarl crept onto his lips, determination straining in his eyes. Something seemed to peel off the tips of Ka-poel’s fingers – a shadow, floating, back and forth like a feather, toward Michel. It landed softly on Ichtracia’s brow.

“It’s all I can spare,” Ka-poel said, her voice trembling. “You have to go. You will die.”

“I’ll die with her, then,” Michel said. He could feel his mind slipping again, that momentary control beginning to wane.

“Let him die,” Sedial rasped. “Let them all die. Break free of your worldly cares. You can be a god, Ka-poel!” The old man’s fingers reached slowly toward the blackest black, as if moving through molasses.

Michel’s reality began to unravel. Ichtracia slipped from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes locked on the blackest black. He wanted to walk toward it, but found that he could not. Something seemed to touch his collar. Ichtracia lay in a pool of blood at his feet. She began to recede farther from him, and he reached out to grasp her, but didn’t have the strength to do it. Something – someone – was pulling him backward. He craned in confusion.

Lady Flint stood just inside the door through which Michel had entered. She didn’t seem bothered by the room, her jaw set and her eyes steady. “You heard the woman,” she told him. “Out.”

Michel felt himself flung toward the portal and watched helplessly as the room with the blackest black disappeared. He stumbled onto the bloodstained altar in the fortress near Landfall. The room was filled with Adran soldiers, most of them badly wounded. Olem stood between a pair of Privileged as one of them treated a gash in his forehead. Understanding returned, and Michel threw himself back toward the portal, only to slam against rock. He pawed at the warm stone and let out a howl of grief.

The portal was gone.

Vlora tossed the spy back into the real world and turned to face the two figures squared off over the blackest black. She walked toward them, finding that the closer she drew, the harder it was to proceed. Halting her advance, she walked around to one side where she could see both faces. Though they looked frozen, like fish on ice, her sorcerous senses screamed, alerting her to the unseen conflict raging between them. Her nostrils burned from powder, her body weak from all those injuries at the Crease.

“You came,” Ka-poel suddenly said.

“Chasing him.” Vlora nodded. “I didn’t expect to find you here.” She tried to take a step forward. It felt like stepping into a tub full of honey. “Lost half my army and a bunch of good friends to do it, but I’m here. Wherever here is. The Else?”

“Yes.”

Vlora looked around at the strange brick room. There was no source for the light that illuminated them, though the world was swirling with pastels of sorcery. The colors coalesced around Ka-poel and her grandfather until they seemed to become that blackest black. Vlora pointed at it in question.