CHAPTER THREE

In the high-roofed temple of the castle, Irrien watched impassively as the priests prepared Stephania for sacrifice. He stood unmoved while they bustled, tying her in place on the altar, securing her while she screamed and struggled.

Normally, Irrien had little time for such things. The priests were a bunch of blood-obsessed fools who seemed to think that placating death could fend it off. As if any man could hold off death except through the strength of his arm. Begging didn’t work, not to the gods, and not, as Delos’s brief ruler was finding out, to him.

“Please, Irrien, I will do anything you want! Do you want me to kneel before you? Please!”

Irrien stood like a statue, ignoring it the way he ignored the pain of his wound, while around him nobles and warriors stood watching. There was some value to be had in letting them see this, at least, just as there was value in placating the priests. Their favor was just another source of power to be taken, and Irrien was not so foolish as to ignore that.

“Don’t you desire me?” Stephania begged. “I thought you wanted me for your plaything.”

Irrien wasn’t so foolish as to ignore Stephania’s charms, either. That was part of the problem. When her hand had been on his arm, he’d felt something beyond the usual stirrings of desire he felt with beautiful slaves. He would not allow that. Could not allow that. No one would have power over him, even of the kind that came from within him.

He looked over the crowd. There were more than enough beautiful women there, Stephania’s former handmaidens kneeling in their chains. Some of them wept at the sight of what was happening to their former ruler. He would distract himself with them soon enough. For now, he needed to get rid of the threat that Stephania posed with her ability to make him feel something.

The highest of the priests came forward, the gold and silver wires in his beard jangling as he moved.

“All is ready, my lord,” he said. “We will cut the babe from its mother’s belly, and then sacrifice it on the altar in the proper fashion.”

“And your gods will find this pleasing?” Irrien asked. If the priest caught the slight note of derision there, he did not dare show it.

“Most pleasing, First Stone. Most pleasing indeed.”

Irrien nodded.

“Then it will be done the way you suggest. But I will be the one to kill the child.”

“You, First Stone?” the priest asked. He sounded surprised. “But why?”

Because it was his victory, not the priest’s. Because Irrien had been the one fighting his way through the city, while these priests had probably been safe on the ships transporting them. Because he was the one who had suffered a wound for this. Because Irrien took the deaths that were his, rather than leaving them to lesser men. He didn’t explain any of that, though. He didn’t owe ones such as these explanations.

“Because I choose to,” he said. “Do you have an objection?”

“No, First Stone, no objection.”

Irrien enjoyed the note of fear there, not for its own sake, but because it was a reminder of his power. All of this was. It was a declaration of his victory as much as it was gratitude to any gods watching. It was a way of claiming this place at the same time as he rid himself of a child who might have tried to claim his throne when it was old enough.

Because it was a reminder of his power, he stood and watched the crowd while the priests began their butchery. They stood and knelt in neat rows, the warriors, the slaves, the merchants, and those who claimed noble blood. He watched their fear, their weeping, their revulsion.

Behind him, the priests chanted, speaking in ancient tongues meant to have been given by the gods themselves. Irrien glanced back to see the highest of the priests holding a blade over Stephania’s exposed belly, poised to slice down while she fought to get away.

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.

“I have this victory because I took it,” Irrien said. “Do any of you think that you are stronger than me? Do you think that your gods will give you the strength to take what is mine? Do you?”

He looked around them in silent challenge, meeting their eyes and noting who looked away, how quickly, and how frightened they appeared when they did so. He picked out another of the priests, younger than the dead one had been.

“You, what is your name?”

“Antillion, First Stone.” Irrien could hear the fear there. Good. A man should realize who could really take his life from him.

“You are now the highest priest in Delos. You will answer to me. Do you understand?”

The young man bowed. “Yes, First Stone. Do you have commands?”

Irrien looked around, getting his temper under control. A flash of it could terrify those who needed to be cowed, but a temper that was not under control was a weakness. It encouraged dissent, and emboldened those who mistook it for stupidity.

“Clear away that as you did the first sacrifice,” Irrien answered, pointing to the dead priest. “Later, you will attend me in the royal chambers of this place.”

He walked to the kneeling slaves, picking out two of Stephania’s former handmaidens. They had much of the beauty of their now gone mistress, with a much more suitable level of fear. He drew them to their feet.

“Later,” Irrien said. On impulse, he shoved one of them in the direction of the priest. “I will not have it said that I do not respect the gods. I will not be commanded, though. Take this one and sacrifice her. I take it that will please them?”

The priest bowed low again. “Whatever pleases you, First Stone, will please the gods.”

That was a good answer. It was almost enough to soothe Irrien’s mood. His hand closed on the forearm of the other woman. She looked shocked into silence, obviously realizing how close she’d just come to death.

The other started to scream as they dragged her to the altar.

Irrien didn’t care about that. He didn’t even particularly care about the slave he dragged along in his wake as he left the room. The weak didn’t matter. What mattered was that there was a sorcerer entangled in his business. Irrien didn’t know what that meant, and it irritated him that he couldn’t see what this Daskalos intended.

It took him most of the journey to the royal chambers to convince himself that it didn’t matter. Who could fathom the ways of those who dabbled in magic? What mattered was that Irrien had his own plans for the Empire, and so far, those plans were proceeding exactly as he wanted.

What came next would be even better, although there was one sour note in that. What did this sorcerer want with the boy? What had he meant about turning him into a weapon? Somehow, just the thought of him made Irrien shudder, and Irrien hated that. He claimed to fear no man, but this Daskalos…

He feared him greatly.