Морган Райс - Ruler, Rival, Exile

Irrien returned his attention to those watching. This was about them, not Stephania. He watched their horror as Stephania’s begging turned to screams behind him. He watched their reactions, seeing who was awed, who was frightened, who looked at him with silent hatred, and who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. He saw one of the handmaidens there faint at the sight of what was occurring behind him and resolved to have her punished. Another was weeping so hard that another had to hold her.

Irrien had found that watching those who served him told him more about them than any declaration of loyalty could. Silently, he marked out those among the slaves who had yet to be fully broken, those amongst the nobles who looked at him with too much jealousy. A wise man did not let his guard down, even when he had won.

Stephania’s screams became sharper for a moment, rising to a crescendo that seemed perfectly timed to match the priests’ chanting. It gave way to whimpers then, falling. Irrien doubted that she would live through this. Right then, he didn’t care. She was fulfilling her purpose in showing the world that he ruled here. Anything beyond that was unnecessary. Almost inelegant.

Somewhere in it, fresh screams joined those of Delos’s most beautiful noblewoman, her babe’s cries intertwining with hers. Irrien stepped back toward the altar, spreading his arms, drawing in the attention of those who watched.

“We came here, and the Empire was weak, so we took it. I took it. The place of the weak is to serve or to die, and I decide which.”

He turned to the altar where Stephania lay, her dress cut from her, clothed now in a mess of blood and caul as much as in silk or velvet. She was still breathing, but her breaths were ragged, and the wound was not one that a weak thing like her would survive.

Irrien caught the attention of the priests, then jerked his head at Stephania’s prostrate form.

“Dispose of that .”

They rushed to obey, carrying her away while one of the priests handed him the child as if presenting him with the greatest of gifts. Irrien stared at it. It was strange that such a tiny, fragile thing could potentially pose a threat to one such as him, but Irrien was not a man to take foolish risks. One day, this boy would have grown into a man, and Irrien had seen what happened when a man didn’t feel he had what belonged to him. He’d had to kill more than a few in his time.

He placed the child on the altar, turning back to the audience while he drew a knife.

“Watch, all of you,” he commanded. “Watch and remember what happens here. The other Stones are not here to take this victory. I am.”

He turned back to the altar, and instantly he knew that something was wrong.

There was a figure there, a young-looking man with bone-white skin, pale hair, and eyes of a deep amber that reminded Irrien of a cat’s. He wore robes, but these were pale where the priests’ were dark. He ran a finger through the blood on the altar without apparent distaste, simply with interest.

“Ah, Lady Stephania,” he said, in a voice that was even, and pleasant, and almost certainly a lie. “I offered her a chance to be my student before. She should have accepted my offer.”

“Who are you?” Irrien asked. He shifted his grip on the knife he held, moving from a grip designed to plunge down to one that was better for fighting. “Why do you dare to interrupt my victory?”

The other man spread his hands. “I don’t mean to interrupt, First Stone, but you were about to destroy something that belongs to me.”

“Something…” Irrien felt a flash of surprise as he realized what this stranger meant. “No, you are not the child’s father. That is a prince of this place.”

“I never claimed to be,” the other man said. “But I was promised the child as payment, and I am here to collect that payment.”

Irrien could feel his anger rising, his grip tightening on the knife he held. He turned to order this fool seized, and it was only as he did so that he realized that the others there weren’t moving now. They stood as if entranced.

“I suppose I should congratulate you, First Stone,” the stranger said. “I find that most men who claim to be powerful are actually quite weak willed, but you did not even notice my… small effort.”

Irrien turned back to him. He had Stephania’s child in his arms now, cradling it in a surprisingly accurate facsimile of care.

“Who are you?” Irrien demanded. “Tell me so that I can write it on your gravestone.”

The other man didn’t look up at him. “He has his mother’s eyes, don’t you think? Given his parents, I’m sure he’ll grow up strong and handsome. I’ll train him, of course. He will be a most skillful killer.”

Irrien made a sound of anger, low in his throat. “Who are you? What are you?”

The other man looked up at him then, and this time his eyes seemed to swim with depths of fire and heat.

“There are those who call me Daskalos,” he said. “But there are those who call me many other things. Sorcerer, of course. Killer of Ancient Ones. Weaver of shadows. Right now, I am a man collecting his debt. Allow me to do so and I will go in peace.”

“The mother of this child is my slave,” Irrien said. “The child is not hers to give.”

He heard the other man laugh then.

“It matters so much to you, doesn’t it?” Daskalos said. “You must win, because you must be the strongest. Perhaps that can be my lesson to you, Irrien: there is always someone stronger.”

Irrien had put up with enough from this fool, sorcerer or not. He’d met men and women who had claimed to command magic before. Some of them had even been able to do things that Irrien couldn’t explain. None of it had let them best him. Faced with magic, the best thing to do was strike first and strike hard.

He lunged forward, the knife in his hand flashing into the young man’s chest. Daskalos looked down at it, then stepped away as calmly as if Irrien had merely brushed the edge of his robes.

“Lady Stephania tried something similar when I suggested taking her child,” Daskalos said, with a hint of amusement. “I’ll tell you what I told her: there will be a price for attacking me. Perhaps I will even have the boy exact it.”

Irrien lunged again, this time going for the other man’s throat to try to shut him up. He stumbled past the altar, almost overbalancing. The sorcerer wasn’t there anymore. Irrien blinked, looking round. There was no sign of him.

“No!” Irrien bellowed. “I’ll kill you for this. I’ll hunt you down!”

“First Stone?” one of the priests said. “Is everything all right?”

Irrien struck him with his off hand, sending the man sprawling. He heard the others gasp. Apparently, they were all free from whatever spell the sorcerer had used to control them.

“Lord Irrien,” the highest of the priests said. “I must protest. To strike a priest is to invite the wrath of the gods.”

“The wrath of the gods?” Irrien repeated. He drew himself up to his full height, but apparently the old fool was too caught up in his self-righteousness to notice it.

“Do not mock it, First Stone,” the man said. “And where is the sacrifice?”

“Gone,” Irrien said. From the corner of his eye, he saw some of those there shifting in place. They at least seemed to recognize the dangerous nature of his anger.

The priest seemed too obsessed to notice. “The gods must be thanked for this victory, or there is a danger that they will not give you others. You may be the most powerful of men, but the gods – ”

Irrien pulled the other man close as he stabbed him. He’d been made to look weak by the sorcerer. He couldn’t allow the priest to do the same. Irrien bent the older man back until he lay on the altar, in almost the spot where Stephania had been.