Page 6 of Poisoned Empire

“He has not yet woken.”

It meant he had not yet had the chance to drown in drink, but his praetor was too politic to say so.

“My thanks. Please see that the invitations are sent.”

Nicephorus bowed and exited the room. The prince stood, and with great resignation, went to wake his father. It was easier to focus on his burning resentment of the man than the fear gnawing at his gut.

Belisarius was ushered into his father’s chamber by two guards. The emperor was passed out in bed with two women only a few years older than the prince himself. They woke when he approached, and his glare was enough to ensure they left with haste. His father still stank of wine from the night before. Belisarius narrowed his eyes and tore the covers from his father’s prone form. The emperor woke with a start, sending an empty bottle flying off the bed to shatter on the mosaic floor.

“Sober up, old man. I need information.”

“Ah, keep your voice down, Belli. My head is full of bees.” The emperor groaned, rubbing his temples.

Belisarius waited while his father put himself to rights and toddled over to a chair on the veranda. Darius had greying black hair and eyes the colour of blood, his skin the same warm brown as his son’s. Belisarius stifled a scowl as he seated himself opposite him. Once, Darius had been feared throughout the land as the greatest fire mage of all time. At seventy, the emperor’s figure was still trim, but starting to soften with drink and dissolution. He could well live another seventy to a hundred years, but if he persevered with this sort of lifestyle, he might only make it another ten.

As his father set about pouring himself a glass of wine, Belisarius placed his hand over the jewelled silver cup.

“I have no time to entertain a drunkard.” Belisarius slid the cup aside on the glass table between them, boring his gaze into his father’s. “Who knew about the Soul-Binding Ritual?”

The emperor’s eyes cleared at the mention of that sinister family secret. He ran a shaky hand through his dishevelled hair and hunched forward.

“Blood relatives and a few others like Nadia, trusted advisors and the silver-tongues. It was strictly the fire mages amongst them who contributed their magic to magnify mine. Many of those relatives have since died, and all agreed to being silenced by the silver-tongued mages. Then, of course, there was Mercurius...”

Belisarius bit back a curse. Mercurius, the brother who had used a botched version of the ritual to kill nearly every sibling who might have become competition for the throne. He was a stain on the family history, the truth of his actions known only to a select few, and his execution a state secret.

“Is there anyone you suspect might profit by sharing our ritual with outsiders?”

“Is that what’s happened to Lethe?” Darius sat back in his seat, shoulders slumped in despair.

“We’ve confirmed that Magister Diamond has used some perverse variant of the ritual on his own daughters. They live like the walking dead. I’m trying to discover who else might be using this variant to siphon the magic from their own kin. Mind and soul included this time, it seems.”

A haunted look passed over the emperor’s face. At least he understood the weight currently crushing Belisarius. The last time Darius had used the ritual, it had been to single-handedly turn the tide of war, and now outsiders had laid claim to it.

“Gods below. I always knew that one would come back to bite us.”

Chapter 3

Ilianaquicklylearnedtokeep her own counsel. No matter if she begged, pleaded, swore or wept, her captors were unmoved, their pace relentless. Carted about like the vilest of criminals in a wooden prison atop a cart, robbed of her weapons and subject to threats, she curled up on herself. She hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to Selene before they’d been captured. Magister Sapphire would drown her for sure this time, erase her like her mother and stepfather before her.

They kept to lesser used roads, skirting towns and marching through scorched ruins where only outcasts scraped by. Her captors were armed to the teeth, and bandits dared not approach their grim caravan. Iliana only wished she had the skill to conjure metal from the air, as Selene did her poisons. Alas, her captors kept even rusted nails well away from her, neutralising her only means of protecting herself. Iliana grew small inside her own mind, refusing to come out. If she were to die, she wanted to be somewhere else—somewhere safe.

It was inside those precious memories that she lived until she found herself in Magister Aristeo Sapphire’s dungeon, being commanded not to die, but to obey.

Hot blood lashed Iliana on the cheek as a young girl lay screaming, strapped naked across a stone block and held immobile. Iliana shakily touched the blood, mind reeling. The heir to the Sapphire Province, Dominus Leo Sapphire, continued to whip his youngest sister without showing the barest hint of remorse. The magister, Iliana’s birth father, leaned against the rough stone wall beside her prison cell and picked at his immaculate nails. Aristeo held up a hand, and Leo stopped, rolling his shoulders and neck, his blue silk tunic and leather boots splattered with red. If she’d had any food in her belly, Iliana might have thrown up.

“This will continue until either she dies or you agree to my terms. If she dies, rest assured, I have a great many more useless daughters who can take her place beneath that whip. You can stop this at any time.”

The young girl’s sobs made her throat ache and eyes sting. Unlike the men of Magister Sapphire’s family, Iliana still had a heart. The problem was, they knew it, and they were happy to use it against her.

She turned to face this monster of a father. His bronzed skin, bright blue eyes and platinum hair were mirrors of her own, but that was where the similarities ended—physical and otherwise. He wore the beautiful embroidered silks and dyed leather of his station, while Iliana’s rough, simple gown and sandals had been dirtied and torn from her captivity. His long, thick hair was swept gracefully back from his face and secured with an ornate gold clasp, while hers lay limp and greasy from days without a bath. When she answered, her voice was hoarse.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Just stop.”

The men looked at each other.

“I believe you owe me one warhorse and a chariot racing team for the Hippodrome, Father. Mira is still alive and your bastard has cracked.”

The Magister’s laugh echoed in the dingy basement.

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