Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (35 page)

Einin led Ishma up the stairs of the Red Tower. She wore a loose-fitting dress with a belt, and Einin had feared she would be upset at such plain clothes. Ishma ignored her dress and seemed to no longer care about appearances, which was odd. In their old life, Einin had spent hours helping her dress because Ishma had said appearances were like weapons for royals. Her wet hair, raven black, hung around her shoulders, leaving the dress damp. The empress moved without a sound; her bare feet padded up the stairs.

They entered the top floor to find Dura rocking Marah. The child was awake, milky-white eyes open, chin resting on Dura’s shoulder. When Einin entered the room, Marah was fine, but when Ishma entered the room she sat up and pointed at the door.

“No.”

Surprised, Einin wondered how much the child could see. Then the screaming began. Marah made frantic hand signals and pounded on Dura’s shoulders. She clawed and climbed at Dura, trying to get behind her.

Einin asked, “What is wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Dura said. “Calm down, child. Slower. I can’t understand you.”

Marah made more gestures.

Dura said, “That makes no sense.”

Lilith-Ishma didn’t notice the commotion at first. The child screeched, which annoyed her, but she was still upset about her bath. She did not feel human. A silly thought, that the saying might hold true, but her filth rested beneath her skin. Her flaws could not be sponged away.

The sound of a child crying stirred other memories. She’d had sons, once, but could not remember their names. She remembered a little boy, Marah’s age, crying for her, and she rocked him in a chair, similar to the one Dura had. She needed to remember his name. The name wasn’t like a forgotten word, dangling out of reach. She had no memory of it at all. His face was gone too. She could not remember her son’s face.

Marah’s fear—Lilith smelled the urine—infuriated her. The rejection of a child, such honesty, hurt. Worse, she should remember her own children.

Lilith asked, “What is she doing with her hands?”

“She is talking,” Dura said. “Finger-speak.”

“What is wrong with her?”

“She is afraid.”

“Let me hold her.”

Lilith reached for the child, but Marah shrieked the word “no” in a dozen different pitches until the sounds became unintelligible.

“It’s your mother.” Einin offered to take her, and Marah slapped her face. “Now see here. We don’t hit. This is your mother and queen.”

“Give her time.” Dura pushed Einin back. “She doesn’t remember.”

Lilith asked, “Why would she?”

She watched the scene with a strange detachment. This was not her child, and her own children didn’t matter anymore. Her task was to get Marah out of Ironwall, and that meant either climbing the walls or walking through gates. She studied Einin first, wondering if taking her appearance gained her anything, but the obvious choice was Dura. She knew, from earlier, that Dura could command people to open gates, and she probably owned horses and guards. Lilith might have an armed escort out of Ironwall.

The question was when to strike. How should she kill Dura? In her sleep, she decided. Then she would mirror her and kill Einin and Tyrus. That way would be best, the best order of revenge and the best disguise. At night, Lilith could move about the tower as silently as a shadow. The guards seemed to stay outside. Mirroring the old woman meant she could shuffle up close to Tyrus, and he wouldn’t suspect a thing. He’d be wary of sorcery, not claws.

Marah’s outburst embarrassed Einin. She had never reacted this way to anyone before and usually took to people with a dignity beyond her years. The dwarves had complimented Einin several times for having such a well-behaved child, and now Marah worked herself into a trembling, snot-covered mess while rejecting the most important woman in Einin’s life.

“Marah, enough is enough. This is your mother.”

Marah’s little hands signed strange things that Einin didn’t recognize, and that sparked an angry thought. Dura taught the child things behind her back. She should know all the same signs as Marah.

“Marah, calm down.”

“No!”

The child spoke the word with her whole body, eyes scrunched shut, chin wagging, fists pounding the air. She twisted and shouted it, each cry climbing an octave until the shrieks were unbearable.

“Please, give us a moment,” Dura said. “I will try to calm her.”

Ishma said, “I am hungry.”

All Einin could do was look at the empress and think to herself,
Really?
At a time like this, you want food?
Ishma appeared indifferent, bored. She surveyed the room with her hands on her hips and ignored her daughter. Einin gestured at the door and said she would show her the kitchen. Ishma headed down the stairs, and Einin followed but then doubled back.

She whispered, “What are those signs?”

Dura shrugged. “She’s saying, ‘It is dead.’”

“And where did she learn the sign for
dead
?”

“It’s one of the Dusk Runes.”

Marah nodded her head. She agreed with Dura but was still angry, and tears streaked down her face. Red welts blemished her ivory skin.

Einin asked, “What do you mean it’s a rune?”

“It makes no sense. She is either saying Ishma is dead or that she is a rune. I don’t know what is wrong.”

“Nightmares again? A waking nightmare?”

“She wasn’t this upset in the Deep Ward.”

“Let me have her.” Einin wanted to cradle her in her arms until she calmed down again.

“Ishma is waiting. Take her to the kitchen. The evening meal should be cooking, and you might find her something warm. I’m sure she hasn’t had a warm meal in months.”

Einin sighed. “Of course.”

The tasks gave her a purpose that she had not experienced in over a year. A queen needed attending, and that offered a sense of wholeness, of fulfilling her birthright. Einin belonged at Ishma’s side. Marah had calmed to sniffles and snorts, little huffs of exhaustion. If the child would act properly in front of her mother, things could return to a semblance of normality. As Einin went downstairs, she heard Dura repeating, “It will be all right, little one. Everything will be all right.”

Emperor Azmon sat on the Shinari throne, listening to reports. His lords and generals prepared for a siege, and he ignored most of what they said. He cared about how many beasts his lords could make in the coming days. Sums worked against them. There were only so many Shinari to be used for the summoning rites, and the bond with Lilith distracted him. Lack of real communication made it difficult, but he could tell that she had located her target and waited to strike. She was satisfied, enjoying herself. The link smacked of smugness. She hungered, and he thought she had Marah and Dura in one place.

Another lord stepped forward, promising wall breakers, when the throne room doors banged open. Guards toppled past, thrown to the floor in a clash of armor. One spear rattled across the marble tile, sliding halfway across the room with a metallic moan. A figure entered, nine feet tall with enormous shoulders, draped in white cloth with a thick hood and a shadow for a face.

The court, startled, fanned out, and guards stepped forward to protect Azmon. He noted Tyrus’s old protégés Tamar and Keylan. They drew swords and moved to block the throne, but they defended him alone. The bone lords tripped over themselves to avoid the giant. His students continued to disappoint. He had been wrong to think of Etched Men as a thing of the past. He needed more men like Tamar. His sorcerers were an insult to the name.

The figure strode forward. “Leave.”

“Dismiss the court.” Azmon said and nodded to the Etched Men. “You as well. Everyone out.”

The figure waited, shadowed face watching the throne. Azmon knew him and knew the white robes hid black wings, but he cold not see past the hood, which was odd because he had runes to see in the dark. He should be able to see the eyes and the bridge of the nose, but the white hood appeared empty. The nobles left, and the doors banged shut.

“
My
emperor.”

“Master.”

“How many did you lose in the forest?”

“Half our strength, but we rebuild, and the elves cannot replace their forces as fast as we can. This is a delay, a setback. The war is still ours to win.”

“They fight to claim this city.”

“The walls will hold. We rebuilt them.”

“You were ordered to attack, not build walls.”

Azmon wanted to argue that point. If he had not consolidated the conquered lands, they might have been pushed back to the ocean. The argument died in his throat, though, because the shedim had other priorities, and he knew them well.

“You had one job. Kill the elves. Ithuriel challenges me in Pandemonium, and I have spent years reconquering the Nine Hells, uniting the shedim under one overlord for the first time in over a millennium, all while you waste my army building your little empire. Did I not say to take
my
beasts and clear a path to the White Gate? Did I not tell you to send all of my army against them, yet you left half your strength in Shinar, defending a dead city?”

“The elves paid for their victory. Their numbers are fewer—”

“They should all be dead! Had you obeyed me, Telessar would be burning and the Ashen Elves destroyed. Do you think I care about rebellions in Sornum or revolts in Shinar? The White Gate is everything.”

Azmon lowered his eyes.

“Where is
my
Lord Marshal?”

Azmon braced for violence and did not know why. The voice was soft, gentle, evoking pleasant memories of a childhood nurse singing songs, but there was an undercurrent to it, an awfulness that Azmon could not place, like the beginning of a nightmare when the horrors waited to reveal themselves. He had dreaded this moment for a long time. Mulciber stepped forward, towering over Azmon despite the raised dais.

“Where is Tyrus?”

“He betrayed us, master.”

“A long time ago. Why did you not tell me?”

“I thought he was dead. I only just learned that he still lives.”

“You thought you could keep secrets from me?”

“I assumed you had claimed his soul in the Nine Hells.”

Silence answered Azmon, and he fought an urge to squirm. The shadows under the hood were an illusion. Mulciber studied him from the darkness, and Azmon could not tell if his words angered or helped.

“Why did Tyrus betray you?”

Azmon’s mouth dried. Mulciber must know. Somehow he knew what had happened, and Azmon thought of all the Roshan soldiers dead in the woods, all those souls delivered to the Nine Hells. The shedim could know many things about his empire.

“My wife turned him, to protect her child.”

The figure pushed back the hood to reveal a beautiful face with high cheekbones and long blond hair. The eyes had crystalline irises, a combination of light blue and pink. This was the face of Azmon’s nightmares, an unnatural beauty that hid the demon within.

“Why was your wife trying to protect your child?”

Azmon swallowed. “My daughter is a Reborn.”

Mulciber’s pupils flashed red. His fingers grew into long claws, and in a blur of speed, Azmon was picked up and tossed from the throne. His shoulder crashed into the floor, and he slid across the marble.

“What have you done?”

Azmon rolled onto his back, kicking away from the giant figure. “I know where she is and where Tyrus is. She will be back soon.”

“What other secrets are you keeping? You play games with the Lord Marshal while my army is destroyed?” Mulciber grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. “You cost me the Gate, fool.”

“The empress—” Azmon coughed, then continued, “works… with the seraphim, but I fooled them.”

“You would lead my armies when you cannot control your own wife? Where is the child?”

Azmon’s face purpled. He struggled against the giant fingers crushing his windpipe.

Mulciber tilted Azmon’s head to the side. “Where is the child?”

“Ironwall.”

Claws stabbed Azmon’s stomach. They flexed in his entrails as he dangled in the air, and his scream sounded like a gurgle. He sucked for air. Pain lanced his midsection, and Mulciber tossed him away. The first breath he took was the sweetest he could remember, but the impression of claws lingered. His neck burned while dark blood poured down his front. The blood warmed his lap and stained his white robes.