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Standing stones. Crescent moon. A glowing light emanating from the ground around him. A hand holding his shoulder tightly. That was the last thing that he remembered, then they woke in the night on a thin cot. It was familiar; they had slept on similar for years. A cell, they thought at first, sitting up and looking at the bare walls. Then - no, barracks. An officer’s quarters, spartan but without others rooming with them. He heard a knock and he thought again about that hand on their shoulder. The strong grip. The nails digging into his collarbone. It felt like a trap. There were no windows here. Through the door came a pair of servants. They wore trousers like the northerners under belted tunics. One, taller, with a greenish complexion and leaf-shaped ears similar to their own, bore bundles of embroidered clothing; the second, with long dark braids and a square collared dress, carried a jewelry box with a cloak neatly folded on top.“I’m Marija, and this is Damir, we’re here to take care of you while you recover,” explained the one carrying the jewelry box. She spoke in the language of the empire, but with an accent he couldn’t place. Northern, but not like some of the visitors from Britannia or travelers that had passed through his hometown. “Can you stand? We need to look at your shoulders and back for sores.” They swallowed, standing, feeling the ache in his joints throb in response.“Where are we?” he asked. “How long was I asleep?”Damir answered. “Months. Our master wasn’t sure you’d wake up. We shifted you as much as we could so your blood wouldn’t pool, laying there. We don’t have any good healers in Epetium, they all went to Kamen and Spalathos for the good contracts. Sorry, my lord, it’s just us.” Neither city name was familiar. He allowed them to inspect his back and shoulders, and provide a change of clothing. He was not surprised to need assistance. Their master had trapped him with thorough means.Marija placed golden laurels on their head, and replaced the piercings on their ears, and carefully slipped a golden ring on his right index. The cloak was pinned with the golden sun-broach. All was done with care. They had not let him sleep in an odd position that would bother the leaf-curves of his ears. They led him out to the garden for a short walk, and returned when he drooped with tiredness.Each day they took him out. “The master will send an escort for you soon. You should be able to walk.” To where, they didn’t say, and he didn’t yet dare to ask. Instead they spoke of the local gossip, of sickness, of family, of feuding friends, and the harvest coming.The season was turning; flowers were dying in the garden. He took pleasure in remembering each kind.When they asked him if he remembered anything else yet, he responded that their name was Palea. It was not the only name he remembered.
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Full moon at night. Button mushrooms growing from a patch of withered irises. The soil is dark, moist and rich. They had given him more freedom as he regained his strength, though it felt like a mockery. He wandered the garden at will, walking when he could, and stretching and resting after. He had tried to grow some crocuses, but they wilted quickly. The same happened with the dovesfoot geraniums and broad-leaved anemone, too. Tonight he tried again, and managed a wisp of a purple bloom before it rotted, before they came to escort him away to the Master.“Palea is walking now, and can speak, dress themself and has a good appetite,” reported Marija as their visitors entered the garden.Palea was sitting on the bench, eyeing the moon, and looked away reluctantly from its silver glow. “Uncle,” they greeted quietly. Hilarius had practically raised him, had been his senior officer since conscription. Of course he remembered the man.“Palea. That suits you, my dear,” Hilarius’s thin mouth curved into a smile. His dark curls were cropped short in the imperial style. His toga was crisply folded and in the colors of mourning. He lifted his hand in greeting, and the gold ring on his forefinger shone brightly in the moonlight. Palea saw it was engraved with twin serpents. They did not remember the ring from before. “We will leave within an hour. I expect your full cooperation. Our master’s blessing casts silence and speed over us tonight.”Palea dared a question. “Where are we going, Uncle?” He kept his tone even, polite. They could have been back home in Nova Roma, discussing the menu for the next officers’ dinner. His heart pounded. They were conscious of their every breath, of their chest beneath their tunic. The old scars, pulling at the skin from sternum to armpits.“We must make preparations at the sacred grove. Then, to Spalathos,” said Hilarius. “Lord Summanus awaits. Do you have everything you require?” This time he looked at Marija. She had come with a bag ready, and nodded, handing it over to the closest legionary. Hilarius gave a curt nod in return and led the way out of the garden. Palea idly plucked a dry stem from the flower bed, lingering for a moment, feeling their breath return bit by bit. Their legs were unsteady when they moved to follow.
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A grove circled around a tall leaning cairn, birch trees white with disease, bending from the wind, sparse leaves falling. A winged seed pod in the inner pocket of their tunic. The golden brooch sat heavily on their shoulder. If only they could be exchanged. He bent a knee before the cairn, murmuring words of respect in the tongue of the druids. His fingers went to the brooch. The gold was warm in the summer sunlight. The wind tangled his traveling cloak around his legs.The answer was a soft unfolding of the ground around him. A blanket of green spread as if laid down by the breeze. Corners and sides, shaken out, and then laid upon the green, blue blossoms began to rise up. They breathed deeply the scent of the sprouting lotus. Something soft unfolded in them. They bent their head to the ground and clutched the green leaves in front of them. They were a mere child before the ancient earth; barely even an initiate to the grand circles of nature.The brooch with its engraving of grape vines burned against their shoulder, and they wrenched it away. It burned into the side of a maturing blue lotus, and they felt the pain radiate like they had touched a hot stove.They fell back when the escort entered the grove. The tall and stern Aurdata led the escort from their master’s Drake Legion: one local, one from a Celtic tribe, another Illyrian like herself, and an older legionary from Dacia. Hilarius stood watching just beyond the trees. The five legionaries tore each lotus plant up by the roots. The wind whipped the birch branches into their faces.Palea took the worst blows, frozen there, sitting on their knees, weeping. They felt their skin was raw before the first branch struck. Soon their light traveling tunic was torn away. The seed pod flew off amongst the torn roots and scattered blue petals. The grove became a dark blue haze of pain.“Fergus, take Palea in hand. Aurdata, burn the grove. These hybrid plants are clearly substandard. We’ll overnight in Brela. I’ve summoned fresh steeds.” Hilarius turned away, expression cool. Palea vaguely registered Fergus’s red hair lower towards them before their vision went dark.
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Murals fade before the eyes on the walls of the lavish bedroom. The tile floor is crumbled in spots. They seem unconscious, there are towels hung to dry over nearby chairs and couches, all in the imperial style. Their breathing is labored but they seem stable. The lighting is better in this vision; it's daytime. Now it's easy to see that there are healing stripes all over them, face and arms and legs, like from being whipped or going through miles of thorn bushes.Two people enter, one is recognizably Aurdata, in more formal clothing. The other one is a legionary with long leaf-shaped ears and long dark hair and pale eyes. He's wearing hand-me-down armor and his boots look particularly worn. He wears the same patch of intertwined serpents showing he's with the Drake legion. Aurdata says, "Sirras, here," and hands him a small bowl of dried blue lotus. "Avita says to anoint the Princeps with this and a dab of water every three hours until they wake up. Got it?"Sirras nods respectfully and takes the bowl of lotus flowers. "I'll guard the Princeps with my life." He does seem to have some hesitation though, and he asks, "But was it really necessary to trap them in that chamber for the ablution ritual? They seemed cooperative. What if they don't wake up?" He has an Illyrian accent like Aurdata."Don't believe that. They're stronger than they look, that's why the master wants them. And they aren't cooperative, no matter what they sound like. That's why we have to do this," said Aurdata. "I'm headed down south again myself, so I'll have Khrysa check in. Remember, ad usum delphini.""Ad usum delphini," repeats Sirras. "I swear to it." She slaps him on the shoulder, smiles and walks away. He remains on guard. Bran seems comatose but remains stable. He seems to be the "Princeps'' they're referring to. Sirras stands watch at the door.
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Palea recovered within the confines of Spalathos. Their arms and cheeks were striped almost as much as the birch branches that had struck them in the now-destroyed grove. The wounds had closed but the healing was oddly slow. Palea had requested herbs for ointment, but Sirras, assigned as their escort since arrival, had only been able to locate some stinging nettle and tarragon. Still, it helped with the soreness and fatigue. Sirras, the Illyrian with long ears and pale eyes, watched as somber as usual as Palea prepared the ointment. Sirras shadowed them in their morning and evening walks. He made little comment even when Palea sat in the courtyard and attempted to grow vines from the earth, in a different sort of exercise. The stripes on their skin turned raw and pink with effort. The ground here was pale and sandy.They noticed the statue on the third week of recovery. Her face was eroded, and most of her extended left hand. Whatever she had offered was gone. Sophia, read the inscription on the plinth. She stood between a couple of ruined columns.“It used to be some barbarian shrine,” said Sirras. “Some cultists that the empire rooted out ages ago.”Palea nodded. Their eyes moved over Sirras’s somber expression, the dark hair falling over his thin face. His olive skin was paler now than when they had started the journey from Epetium. He still wore the irregular armor that most legionaries cobbled together - from parents, brothers, fallen comrades, enemies, wherever else they could scrounge together a set. The cloak was a fine red though. Perhaps Sirras’s father had been an officer, like Palea’s own.Julian’s face floated over the statue in their mind’s eye. The scars over his face, his dark curls, his tired smile as he sat with his scrolls. Later, the texts had been bound, and Palea recalled the cramped handwriting in the field journal every night by the fire. Julian had gone pale, traveling by night only, and hiding his child with him on the journey. They had camped, site to site, by forest, by river, by hills, until Bran was three years old. Then - one day - Bran had been handed over to follow the trail back to Nova Roma, clutching that black journal. His father was gone, but the sacred words of Sophia would still be kept secret. Had anyone else ever known but the two of them? Why couldn’t they remember how Julian had died?“Are you tired? We should return. The master is awaiting your full recovery,” said Sirras, pulling Palea back to the present. The names - Julian, Sophia, Bran - rang in their ears. A bird cawed as if to echo them again. When Palea looked to see what it was, it was already flying around the nearby corner. Pale feathers reflected the evening light dully. Some seagull, Palea thought. It wouldn’t be a raven. White ravens were rare creatures, and no one knew that Palea was there. Not Sophia, long-distant, and long-forgotten. Not Julian, dead and gone. What did their master know of them? Why had their master brought Palea to the last dregs of Sophia’s memory? What waited for them beyond recovery from their physical wounds? Would their magic return, the call of the earth?Another caw, mocking. Palea turned back to walk to their quarters. Sirras followed, a constant, faithful shadow. His hand-me-down boots were quiet on the streets.
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Death. A lone white flower between sculpted black bones of grasping hands. No, molded - some strange black iron spotted with other minerals. The flower, too, when they looked closer, was artificial. They heard a raven’s mocking caw. A pale claw gripped the stone grave marker, a pale beady eye stared up at them. “Good bye kid,” cawed the raven. “Tonight. They’re coming.” Its voice was harsh, nasal, and oddly familiar.Palea swiveled their head. Sirras and Khrysa were paying respects at a nearby grave. Sirras was singing a hymn, a legion song for the fallen. Khrysa was cleaning the grave markers and scowling. She had been sent on another mission after their arrival, and Palea had felt her return as an ill omen. She and Sirras had spoken of strange names like Octavo the champion and Lilah the hierophant, and of unfamiliar places - Rusicade, Zadar, Gospova. Something about bringing in an important shipment for their master. It sounded like livestock, or perhaps prisoners.But tonight?“Yes. Soon.” The raven cawed. It turned to look up at them with both eyes and ruffled its feathers. “Take you down. Way down. Meet him.”“Shh,” Palea cautioned, glancing back. Khrysa was now sharpening her blade. It was noisy, but so was the raven.“Hot down there. River of fire,” the raven added helpfully. “Don’t go there. Go away. Before they take you.”“I can’t,” Palea whispered back. They pretended to kneel before the carved metal offering and the grave marker. They tried to scoop up the raven in their arms as they did so. It thanked them with a wing to the nose and watering eyes. It hopped a couple of graves away. Palea whispered again, “my power is gone. The earth won’t listen to me. The plants all die.”“Get new power,” said the raven. “Or go down there and see. Not a good place.”Palea swallowed and bent their head as if praying. Sirras and Khrysa hadn’t seemed to hear the raven. “I don’t have any other power. How am I supposed to get that?”The raven tilted its head. “Ask a god that’s not the earth. You’ve got some god blood. New blood.”Palea thought of Sophia, and Julian. “Evil blood.” What other blood could they have? How could their blood be new?“Get away or go down there,” repeated the raven. It hopped a little closer, and let Palea touch its feathers. It seemed solid enough. It cawed again, loudly, the sound reverberating through their teeth and jaws and launched itself in the air.Khrysa put her hand on their shoulder. A white feather drifted down in front of Palea’s nose. But it was gone.
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The garden now had strict marches of poppies, standing soldier-straight. Their black eyes stare as he tread cautiously between their lines. Sirras and Khrysa stood at the gate of the garden at the end of the flowerbeds. The poppies were already drooping as he submitted to their escort. The words of the raven still echoed in their ears, from their last visit to the park. But the only power here belonged to the master. His legs felt oddly light. His skull buzzed, as if some pollinator had crawled between his ears. But there were no bees or wasps or flies there, and everything Palea had grown was dying rapidly.Khrysa led them onwards. Though much of the complex seemed like any other fort - living quarters, cooking, cleaning, carrying and fetching, business and life with a legionary color - there were inner passageways that were constantly guarded. It was one of these not far from Palea’s own rooms that they went down. And it did slope down into the earth, twisting and turning into the darkness, until Sirras had to make a small light for them to navigate. The stone walls radiated cold. Distantly, Palea heard a lapping of water, perhaps an underground lake or an aquifer.The passageway opened up. Sirras’s light seemed as faint as a lone candle in a field. They stepped into an enormous atrium with a flooded impluvium. Droplets dripped down columns, all worn, once decorated with fluting and other lively carvings. Beyond, countless columns faded into the darkness. “This is the palace complex beneath Diocletian’s palace,” Sirras said to Palea quietly. “We will not be going back above ground for some time.”Palea nodded. But they thought, I know this place. A scattered memory came back to them in pieces as they followed Khrysa.A warm hand over his smaller one. Green eyes and red hair, a mouth shaped like his own, a broad smile as warm as her hand. She was telling a story: There was once a hunter who roamed the hills, she dressed like a man, rode like a man, raised hounds, and was as fleet as a deer even on foot. She came from a faraway land where they named her Ardashir. She hunted down evil men and saved those who had no power. Many joined her as companions. Some even built her shrines and called her Artemis or Aphrodite or Hekate.One day she forded a river and angered its goddess. She was trapped there in the mud. She was trapped there so long that the earth grew up around her. Her companions searched for her at first but over time even the most faithful thought of her only as a distant, vengeful god. They forgot about her. She caught a lady’s hand-mirror when it floated down the river, and her reflection was her only company. As time passed, other flotsam and jetsam reached her. She managed to catch a dagger, and a broken net, too.One day a red haired man walked from the sky down to the place where she was trapped. His eyes were like fools’ gold and he had a laugh that would make other people want to laugh, too. His smile was beautiful. He was a god from the far north, and he asked her a question….“What is it that keeps you fighting against the current down here? Do you feel it?”Palea blinked. They were in the garden again, and it was night. Khrysa had asked a question.No, not night. They were underground, but this garden was very much like the park with the poppies. Skeletal white ferns grew instead of flowers here. Bones littered the floor where there should have been gravemarkers and offerings. A statue of a woman without a face yet stared down at them from a nearby niche. Khrysa had paused and grabbed their arm without their knowing, when they were lost in thought.“Princeps, if you do not surrender to the master in this place, he will take your mind and heart by will alone. I live by my loyalty. You must learn to surrender or he will destroy you. We enter the camp now. Stay close.” Her blunt warning made them stumble as she pulled them forward, to walk at her side. Sirras followed behind without a word.
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Palea found the city underground becoming more familiar. Their quarters were found in the Praetorium, whose courtyard had rather more statues than the one in their hometown of Nova Roma. The library was equally as massive as their own, though focused on imperial artifice and philosophy rather than magical beasts and plants. Even their schedule became a mockery of their hometown habits. There was no morning or night, but by a system of bells, candles and other timekeeping tools, the business of the city went on. When they woke, they would walk around the courtyard and try to coax plants into growing, until Sirras came to break their fast together. He would give Palea any messages or deliveries. The first days brought additional sets of clothing, armor, and some basic practice weaponry. They were instructed to practice until Khrysa’s tutelage until their muscle memory returned; after all, they had been competent with a blade once.Khrysa repeated her advice. This time she chose an opportune moment, when Palea faltered. Her blade was quick to go to their throat. Her words were equally ready and sharp. “You act like you’d rather be somewhere else. You’re here now, Princeps. Sirras says you scream and weep at night. It will not get better. Submit or you will be destroyed.”Palea swallowed. They did not remember waking at night or making any noises. Had there been any nightmares? Would they remember if there were? “Mercy,” they said instead. “I submit.” But there wasn’t fear in their eyes; if anything, they had been more distracted than usual. Their thoughts were on their regular afternoon activities; until dinner was brought to them, they would be free to wander among the books. They thought they had spotted one that looked like it belonged to their own library. The Conference of the Birds. Yesterday, they saw it in an imperial artificer’s own hands, when they were shelving some items. They had not lingered, wary of the limits of their freedom, but had resolved to return today.“I don’t believe you,” said Khrysa, but she raised her blade to let them up. “You just want an easy out. You will have to swear to the master, like we did.” But her eyes were searching their face. Palea shook their head, trying to force their eyes to focus, stumbling to their feet. They went through the motions of wiping their blade clean of any dirt or sweat. They did not really want to answer her, but her eyes were still on them. Her stare was as fierce as a hawk hunting rabbits among the hills. “What is it you fear to lose Palea? What is there left for you?” she insisted. “You will only safeguard your people more by swearing to Lord Summanus.”“I will swear,” said Palea in a dull tone. “Give me another day.”She scowled disapprovingly. “Go on to your books, Princeps. I know that’s what you do all day. You should pay more attention to arms and strategy. See if you can find a book on that. It’s my duty to make you worthy for our master.”She dismissed them with that last stern instruction and left for her own afternoon activities. She sometimes went above-ground, though through different paths than where they had entered originally. She took on separate missions for her master at times. Palea wondered if this new ultimatum was from her master, or from Khrysa herself. It was with unsettled relief that they stepped back into the library. It was quiet except for a couple of artificers studying or writing notes. Every now and then, they would turn a page, or cough, or scribble something in their expensive inks. Palea found the book at hand almost immediately. It was the one they knew, with the story of the Simurgh. They sat down and opened it with a smile. A piece of home, in a place like this!They spotted a folded note tucked between the cover and the first page….
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Palea unfolded the note. A comforting warmth unfolded with it, from a wisp of a feather that lay within, gold and red. The heat it radiated was welcome and they cupped their hands around it. By their estimation, the feather was practically down by its texture and size. By the heat, it had to be a phoenix feather. A blessing, they thought. Who had left such a rare find for them?
I know I haven’t been visiting long, but I know my sister led us here for some important destiny. I think it was to meet the people who rescued me. But I think it was to meet you, too. Renshaw let me in. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed anything. She said there might be a book in your library that would help me remember who I am. I had a dream about fighting a fierce warrior in the desert. There was a sweet voice looking for truth, just like in your book. I had to protect her. I remember she illuminated the world around her, she lit a path for me. And someone was speaking words that sounded like your book -
“The Savior,” “the Perfect One”, on the day that she will die,
Will come to seek the flesh god’s right hand.
He will turn the Phoenix to ash in the dry land,
Halt the sacrifice and summon of a lie -
A dire miracle to perform, the gods’ will to aband -
Amd sunder the lost twins of fire and chaos
To recover the syzygy of the lost goddess.
On the day she blesses one whose heart walks alone,
The seed of evil blood is found in summer’s span
Shaping a new form in the world under.
But ward the heroes must against the new wonder:
the false champion will wake “The Perfect One”
And drown the lost heir in lotus - the princeps unknown -
To steal the goddess’s own, hidden in humble bran.
the earth rising up, a summons
I hope next time we meet, I’ll remember more. Thank you for your help. Your library is amazing. My sister would have loved it. Please take this feather. Hold it in your hands, and light and warmth will come from it, because of the light in your heart.
Ari
Palea tucked away the note and the feather, then carefully shelved the book. Their heart pounded rapidly. They remembered Ari of course. The handwriting was a familiar messy scrawl. They had only been in town a few weeks before heading north with the other heroes. Their sister was an Augur, a type of seer, but she never had the chance to bring any insight to their town before the attacks began, and the blight spread. She had been killed before Ari and their friends freed Bran and the rest of the town. But…. This did seem prophetic. They couldn’t deny how it spoke about Sophia. And the rest? Why did they feel it spoke about them specifically? They turned the words over and over in their mind, pacing the library, listlessly taking out books and replacing them after only a few pages.
They felt like the tile floor was sinking under their feet. They paused over a mosaic of a dolphin leaping over waves. They felt blood rushing to their head. The poem - the
prophecy
- spoke of The Phoenix, and spoke of Sophia’s syzygy. The feather was warm in their pocket, still softly burning, but not spreading fire. Ari had burned with that same fire when fighting against Summanus’s forces. They were the Phoenix, come again - writing these words, knowing these things, who else would they be?
And the heroes. Their friends. It spoke of them finding evil within a fortress. Could it mean the complex in Spalathos, and underneath?
They
were
the princeps. They remember the ablution in the underground reservoir. They remember the taste of the lotus fruit. And undeniably, their heart…. They thought of Khrysa. She had dedicated so much time to him, with care that seemed more than her master’s requirement. Her flushed face once when sparring brought their body close. Her braids pushed back with a clumsy hand. And they, remaining untouched, feeling the shared warmth of an uneasy friendship, admiring her strength but not the attraction within that same body that wielded such strength.
Walking alongside, their heart quiet, loving in a different way.
Their feet wandered towards the gardens. They fell on their knees at the nearest flowerbed. The smell of mold filled their nostrils. Everything had died. The words burned in their mind.
She blesses one whose heart walks alone… The goddess’s own.
His fingers dug into the degraded soil. They murmured a passage from his father’s faith.
Awake from forgetfulness through the interpreter who was sent, who is with you until the end of the poverty. Spring for me the everlasting.
Delicate moss-grey shoots sprang up from the ground. A whorl of scale-like bract leaves followed. The excess moisture diminished as the earth reshaped itself; the scent of mold retreated. Soon, bunches of the shoots grew as thickly as pristine coral beneath the ocean. Then, as if they could feel the summer sun even this far beneath the earth, the small delicate yellow flowers formed - budded and bloomed. The plants creeped across the soil until they covered the flower bed, and as they raised their head, he saw that soon the whole garden would be covered with the flowers.
Helichrysum orientale. Amarantos, the unfading, garlands for the dead.
They panted for breath and sat there for some time, their hands caked with sun-warmed soil, until Khrysa found him and led him to dinner.
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The journal fell by the bedside before they retired. Their father’s journal: “The legion is coming for me. I’ve called on the child’s mother to take them away. She’s loath to use her imperial rank but she agreed.”They woke up to a hand on their cheek. Their skin was clammy, feverish; the coolness of the hand was welcome, but the touch was not. Instinct drove them to put claws across the corresponding cheek. A hiss of indrawn breath between gritted teeth - and a familiar gruff voice. “Princeps, you’re ill. We need to apply the herbs,” Khrysa said.Fangs followed claws; fur rippled across skin. He stretched. Coolness spread through his veins. No longer panting for breath. No longer weak and prone. A low growl reverberated in their chest.Khrysa lit a lamp, only to see those fangs less than a finger’s width from her eyes. She froze; even the snakes that intermingled with her braids paused. She breathed out slowly. One hand began to inch towards the sword she kept sheathed at all times. “Princeps,” she repeated. “Come back to us. Return to your true form.”Heavy paws slammed against her stomach, knocking the breath out of her. In this form, they were anything but frail; thick ropes of muscles were hidden under thick fur. Claws dug into her shoulders and collar, pressing painfully into the bone. The fangs were at her throat. A leopard waited and ambushed; and by the time a warthog or monkey was caught, it was too late. She fought for breath. They still had the mind of a human - or human enough. “This does not serve you,” she managed hoarsely. “This is against your honor and your word. You promised you would swear loyalty to our master today. Who will you swear to if you take my life? Who else will hear you and know you down here?”The beast hesitated, the dim lamplight playing across its dappled coat as it shifted. She could smell its bitter breath; like lotus and not like meat. She took the opportunity; a deep breath, a shove with all her force, the snakes in her braids striking out - and then shoved her knee into the beast’s throat.A shift again - the muscles moved under her like a nest of serpents - they were changing back, fur becoming flesh, ears now leaf-shaped, spots stretching into tattoos - and the Princeps slammed her against the floor with their own hands, knocking her head back against the cold tiles. She gasped, hating herself for the weakness.Then, without a word of warning, he let her up. Abruptly they stood over her, hands empty, now weaponless, claws retreated into flesh. His tunic was ripped and he steeled himself against the cold damp that was everpresent in that place. “I swear,” he said. “By my blood, I swear I will serve Summanus until death takes me.”
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What little there was of morning was met by open eyes and steady breathing. The taste of the lotus was sour on their tongue. The dreams of the night faded with the sound of garbled speech. Someone had been speaking to them…. Not Krysa, another voice. The sound of turbulent water, swirling around rocks or perhaps some distant pebbled shore. Cold air, the scent of salt.“Princeps, a message for you.” They had hardly dressed for their duties when the soft voice of one of the servants came from the hallway.“I’ll take it momentarily.” A pause, their eyes moved over the room. A trace of blood from the encounter with Krysa. They folded the wool blanket and placed it over the blood, the worst of it was where their feet lay. The blanket would look like a legionary’s habit. Had anything else been bloodied? But there was no time to check the adjoining rooms.They took the letter at the door. It was a familiar figure, one of the war-prisoners. At a distance, like any other nymph, but this was one of the lampades. They wore a veil like their mistress Trivia, woven with the colors of night, hiding their expressions. He never could tell what they were thinking. Her hand was cold when his fingers brushed against it, taking the scroll. His eyes went to her other hand and the strange lantern hanging there.“They gave me a message to speak too,” she said. She seemed to be staring now somewhere above his head. The hand that held the lantern twitched; it swung, casting odd lights against the wall. Their eyes followed it involuntarily.“You may give it,” they said, belatedly. “Thank you.”A moment of pause, their veiled head tilted in thought. They spoke with care. “We must leave. Those who would halt your ascension have arrived in the city above. I will arrive in four hours. Be ready with your things to head towards the first river. We will not return to the camp. Do not speak of the mission to any others. I will make sure Sirras is distracted. Octavo is dead.”
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Palea knelt at the riverbank. The goddess sat in the cove nearby; they felt her gaze on the back of their neck. They had seen her eyes - the color of thin milk - and the tear stains on her cheeks. But there was nothing he could do for her. Not yet.
“Drink,” said Krysa. “And we’ll follow it quickly.”
They drank, and they knew nothing. They sank into unconsciousness - quiet, dark, and disconnected from the sensations of their body. Her voice was nonsense, disparate sounds. The ground was cold and that seemed right, too. Nothing was wanted from him. His own voice - thoughts - held no substance.
A shock of cold brought him back to themself. Khrysa had dragged him back from the riverbank. “Ok. It’s me, Krysa. Your friend. I’ll secure the palace. Get the crown and meet me at the gate. It’s the only way out.”
“The crown?” they echoed staring up at her. A friend. Was Khrysa a friend?
“The Lord’s crown. You need to get it. Or you won’t be able to get out of here alive. And you won’t be worthy for the Master.” Her instructions were curt. Her eyes moved across his face and then focused somewhere over his shoulder. She extended a hand. “Come on. Get up.”
Her voice kept them going when their own thoughts weren’t even a whisper. They stumbled to their feet. Khrysa supported them to the mouth of the cave nearby. Mist curled around them. The scent of sulphur filled their nostrils, mouth, lungs. The sound of lapping water was muted.
“Ask her for water. Politely. She’s a goddess. And remember the mission.
Ad Usum Delphini
. I’ll meet you at the gate.”
The mist cleared as they stepped further in. Khrysa’s voice faded somewhere behind. A tall woman in a traditional stola was stirring a pool of water, the source of the mist. The long silver ladle made steady circles in her hand. Tears stained her cheeks. She gave a stern smile. He bowed. “May I have some of the water?” they asked. “Please.”
“You are sort of alive,” the woman observed. “And you drank from the Lethe. Tell me, what do you want?”
“I want…” they murmured. They hesitated, searching for words that didn’t come to their tongue. “I forgot, I’m sorry, Lady,” they apologized.
“Think on it,” she said. “The last one who drank of both waters became a seer. What will you become?”
They nodded silently. She gestured for them to come closer. “Carefully, child,” she said, handing them the ladle, cold from the water. The handle was engraved with dancing muses. He drank.
“Thank you, Lady,” they murmured. Memories of voices echoed in their mind.
Politely. She’s a goddess.
And
We’re heading up north, a few months‘ journey. Are you able to translate this for us? It has a powerful magic in the runes, something divine.
And
Where are you Bran? What can you see? What’s happening to you?
And
our master wasn’t sure you’d wake up.
They clutched at their head, sinking to the floor. She retrieved the ladle before they could drop it.
A new voice came through the clamoring. Their eyes were closed hard against the disorienting flood of memory. Silver light shined into their eyes nevertheless - was it in this cave? Was it a mere vision? A hallucination of confusion, a side effect from the wellspring? He tried to blink the light away, only succeeding in summoning swirls and dots, the nauseating discoloration of oils pooling on the surface of some stale herbal drink.
The silhouette of a woman in robes formed, distant and fuzzy; her voice was in his ears as if she was sitting next to him on the cool stone floor. He knew her, though she had never spoken to him. Sophia, the goddess of their father, the secret he kept in meditations and prayers, the shameful cult that the empire couldn’t know about.
You are the last of my blessed souls in this world. Bran. Palea. Faventinus and Aurelius. Child of the forest and the moon, child of the empire. The bond of your forgetfulness was bound by the world in poverty, for they feared the form you would take and the wisdom you would reveal to the world. Your blood is in the infinities. If you ask about anything, I will tell you. You have been robbed by those who will not awake, who cannot pierce the curtain of light. You have pieced together your garments.
Now lay judgment on the thieves who robbed you.You have my blessing in the fullest, wealth out of poverty. Your imperishable nature, starting from the revelation of chaos, is in the Light that shines without shadow, and unutterable joy.
They felt her touch, briefly, like a breeze dissipating in summer heat. The light didn’t disappear when she was gone. A silver glow hung around them as they stumbled to their feet. A hurried bow was all they could manage. Their feet moved by instinct. The palace. The crown.
Judgment on the thieves who robbed you.
But how could they, being a thief themself?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A song from their father persistently hummed in their ears as they approached the palace. Khrysa had been here, as she had promised. How long had they been in the little cove by the river, with the goddess? How long had the vision of Sophia lasted? How long would they keep glowing like this?
The song was a question-and-answer, a teaching song, a child’s song. “
How can we know? How did it come to be? How can we count the aeons? Where are we going?”
A small child by the fire, not knowing who was coming for their father in the dark. “Whoever is worthy will know the way; to you it is given to know; and no one can find the truth except through you.”
A much-abused field journal, in the modern style, easier to study than a scroll in a stolen moment - at a meal, on watch, between exercises. “They went astray; I came from the light down low; and everyone fell asleep except for me and you.” Their father’s body crumpled around it, trying to protect their shame even in death. They scrambled to grab it. A sword pierced the dirt next to their leg. They panted and looked for a place to run. Surely there was safety in the trees.
“Leave this child,” a woman had said with a voice of authority. Her red hair had glinted in the firelight. “He’s mine. The empire still has a purpose for him. Take the body. Have the druids verify, they exiled him after all.” And when the legionaries had left, dragging the body, her strong arms had lifted him and held him close, and carried him through the trees.
“I’m going to have your uncle Matthias drop you off at home when it’s safe,” she said. “Keep the cult secret, or you’ll end up like your father - or worse. The druids will keep an eye on you for any signs of evil blood. You’ll be fine.” She had sounded so easy, so confident. She hadn’t even looked at the body.
“Can you tell me a story first?” they had whispered. “Father didn’t finish the story.”
The woman seemed taken aback. “A story?” She kept walking through the trees. The underbrush seemed to part for her before a single leaf or thorn brushed her armor. Her footsteps were silent. “Okay. I’ll tell you a story from my family. One day there was a princeps who was at the seaside, when pirates took him. He pretended to be a god. All he had with him was a skin of very strong wine, so he pretended to be Dionysus. He was such a clever actor, he got the captain drunk, and only faked drinking himself. He took charge of the crew and told them where there were imperial stores of wine they could share. That night, Dionysus himself showed up and took the princeps away to be his cupbearer for many years, before he came into his inheritance and became emperor. They say that’s how the current emperor’s family was blessed by the gods.”
“Is it true?” The child’s voice became almost sing-song with exhaustion; the question sounded like a line from his father’s song.
She sighed. “No, I think Dionysus slept with someone or another way back in the day, but I like the pirate story better. My father told it to me when I was your age. Said it impressed my mother anyway.”
“Did it?” wondered the child.
“I don’t know,” said the woman. “She turned into a monster and they had to kill her.” She said this in a matter-of-fact tone. “She had evil blood.”
Evil blood, they thought again as they stepped towards the entrance of the palace.
Your blood is in the infinities.
The goddess saw them as worthy. She saw in them joy. Why didn’t they feel that joy? Their feet were tired. Their stomach was hollow. The bitter taste of lotus lingered in their mouth. They smelled of mud and sulphur and harsh standard-issued soap. The intricately carved columns and massive doors of the palace main entrance loomed ahead; the sounds of the river faded as they grew closer.
“Princeps.” A legionary they vaguely recognized was standing at the doors. “Khrysa instructed you would want the throne room first. Follow me, if you will.” He bowed. He had burnished auburn hair longer than standard, and his eyes were likewise strikingly red. But human enough for a legionary stationed in the Underworld.
“Achaicus,” they acknowledged. “Yes. The throne.” The crown, the throne, the god - they felt vaguely sick at the thought of traveling deeper into the Underworld, into its very heart, into the home of its Lord.
The Light that shines without shadow
.
Unutterable joy.
They avoided Achaicus’s gaze as he straightened and pushed open one of the massive doors. Their eyes instead swept over his signs of rank, and the skull brooch on his cloak. The veins of black across his temples were another sign that he was one of Eira’s creatures - someone who had died, and now lived due to her rituals. Avita had been the sorceress primarily overseeing their travels, but they had crossed paths with Eira’s domain briefly. They remembered this clearly now. Eira and her creatures were dangerous. Eira and her creatures weren’t dedicated to the
Delphini
. What had Khrysa told him to get him to cooperate?
“Your assistance is appreciated,” they said as they followed Achaicus through the atrium, first courtyard, and then to the inner courtyard and inner rooms adjoining. The inner courtyard had its own patrol across the area. Achaicus touched a silver skull earring and seemed to pass a message; the patrol continued on its path and didn’t approach the two of them.
“Your
optio
mentioned an inspection. I understand you are resuming your duties to the Master after a period of illness. Do you wish to inspect the legionaries stationed here as well?” Achaicus asked. His face was guarded, his tone respectful.
“We have a pressing appointment further out. Inspecting the security at the throne room will be sufficient for our Master’s purposes today. Now that my illness is gone, I have been empowered to eliminate any… issues.” They paused significantly before the last word. But the not-quite-lies came smoothly. He had such things in truth before, back home, regarding ordinary outposts, and a much more ordinary superior. The familiar procedure was a bleak comfort at best.
Achaicus nodded. “Of course. We have been expecting more attacks from the daemones. May our Master rise soon from the heart of chaos.” The phrase belonged to a worshipper at a temple more than to a centurion conducting business.
They could see the fervency in their face, in their fiery eyes. They met it with all the reassurance they could muster. This creature was still a soul, even if he was enthralled by an evil sorceress. “I will do all that is in my power,” they said. “You have my word, Achaicus.”
They feared the form you would take and the wisdom you would reveal. You have been robbed….
Her words echoed in his mind again. How could anyone trust him, after this? What wisdom did he have for anyone?
Walking into the throne room felt like falling. The gravity-well of the god’s power drank the flickering torch light at the edges of the room, leaving only ghostly wisps of blue-purple light to illuminate the grand hall. “You may return to your duties,” they said to Achaicus. “I will call upon you if any further assistance is needed. I see the way to return to the front entrance and the path.”
“Of course, Princeps.” Achaicus gave a respectful murmur, and exited after another bow.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
They let their shoulders fall and ran their hand through their curls. Too long. Out of standard. Back home, they would be ashamed to see him this way. Not to mention the mud. His eyes moved across the hall.
Shades of legionaries, lining the sides of the room, like a mockery of an honor guard. They would not need to eat or drink or rest. They seemed almost statues at first, but their eyes moved as Palea passed through. A few saluted or bowed, recognizing his rank. A couple put their hands to sword hilts. “I am Princeps Palea Aurelius,” he said. “I do not seek to disturb this sacred place any more than necessary, nor do any harm. My mission will be quick. Apologies for the interruption.” The silvery light followed him, and where it spread, the spirits’ eyes became brighter, and their demeanor was soothed. He thought he could see a few smiles.
Ahead, the dais, and the thrones, one occupied, and one empty. Of course, it had been summer before they had descended to this place. The Lady would be in the world above. The Lord seemed to be sleeping, his head leaning. His tunic was in the dark colors of mourning, with a toga of red and gold over. A crown of bone-carved laurels rested over his temples. And before him stood a winged figure, in plainer dark robes, and a wicked scythe - his lieutenant, Thanatos - Death itself. The shadows gathered deeply around him.
Palea bent one knee and lowered his head. “Lord Thanatos, Lord Hades. I must speak with you urgently.”
“Hades sleeps in the trap of your Master, Summanus,” said Thanatos. His voice was deep and reverberated in Palea’s chest and ears. “What do you come here to ask, Princeps? I can give you nothing but death. Is it so hard for you to die that you must be granted it by my own hand? Nature suffices for most mortals.” The tone was carefully neutral, hiding what Palea guessed was some distaste.
“Lord Summanus demands that I deliver the crown to him by hand.” They swallowed. The truth was as bitter as the remnants of the lotus. They would not lie to a god, but whose ears could be listening? “You are right, Lord Thanatos. I was a student of nature,” they said instead.
“What are you a student of now?” Thanatos asked. “Not death, I am sure.” He sounded almost amused now. The scythe was ready in his hands; his stance was steady. But Palea lifted his head and noticed then that there were chains at his wrists and ankles. His wings were free, but hung limp.
“I’m not a student any longer. I am merely a servant of our Master. I must fulfill the mission he has given me.” Then he pressed, “I must collect the crown. What must I do to take it from here?”
“You would dare to take the crown from Lord Hades’s own head.” He sounded musing. He had time to talk. They were both prisoners.
Palea looked again at the god sitting on the throne. There were no chains on his arms or legs. He could just be sleeping peacefully by all appearances. “I must. What must I do to take it?”
“Singularly minded, I see. You don’t fear me, nor do you wish to escape your master,” mused Thanatos.
“Lord Summanus has taken both of you as war-prisoners. He now demands the crown,” they pressed again. “Will you prevent me from taking it?”
Your blood is in the infinities. Your imperishable nature.
“If you attempt to pass by me, to take from Lord Hades, you will die.” The god’s tone was patient. “You are a mortal child. The lightest touch of my hand will stop your breath. I will dedicate you with my blade and your spirit will rest until brought forth to judgment.”
Palea stepped forward.
Now lay judgment on the thieves who robbed you.
Was this the judgment they deserved? Was this the dedication they were meant to receive?
They drew their standard issue short sword. “Thank you,” they said. “But I see you are weak and chained up. My path leads here. This is my mission. I cannot fail my Master.” They raised the blade, readying the first strike, eying the length of the chains and the arc of movement they would allow from their opponent.
Those who will not awake, who cannot pierce the curtain of light.
Their blade began to glow with the silvery light that still hung about them like a cloak. They charged forward.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A tall gate of entwined bone and ivory, antler and tusk, stood at the edge, where the darkness of the Underworld became something deep and terrible. They had seen a gate like this before, though it was many months ago - even before they were so heavily dosed with the lotus plant - deep underground in Londinium.
Hilarius grasped his shoulder tightly as they stepped between the tall carved stones arrayed around the chamber. Their breath was fog; rivulets of water ran down the stones and frosted in places. All the water smelled strongly of iron; the mud at the edge of the reservoir was tinted red. “They keep a daemon down here, some hungry ancient spirit,” Hilarius muttered. The older officer was red in the face and his robes were muddy. They had shed theirs, and even their boots, only keeping their cloak wrapped around themself against the worst of the cold. “They say it’ll eat your curse if you give it blood.”
“If I must.”
“You don’t have a choice here, no,” said Hilarius wryly. “Don’t worry, we’ll be meeting with Avita soon. She has something that will make you forget your worries about home. And you know they’re fine. We’re taking the attention of the Master far away from them. By coming with me, we’re keeping them safe. You know that, Palea.”
“Bran,” they said quietly. “That isn’t my name. You know my father. He was a disgrace. I am no Princeps.”
“As you like. You always were a stubborn child.” The older officer chuckled. He let go of their shoulder once they were deep enough in the water. “Not that I believe in evil blood, but the Master insists. We have to make you worthy.”
A nod of understanding, if not agreement. They waited as the others, the attendants from House de Leon who oversaw this place, formed a rough half-circle around the two of them. A low chant. They caught some words - snatches of phrases from Macedonia or Persae - all ancient. They felt something pulling them towards the water, and they knelt by instinct. They could have sworn they saw a face below the water, pale, with violently red hair - a glimpse of a far less human body swathed in darkness - their heart pounded. “Who are you?” they whispered before they could think better of it. But there was no answer. The water rippled from its passage. Presumably the daemon. Weren’t they supposed to be spawned from Tartarus, primordial nightmares and tormentors of mortals? One of the de Leon attendants stepped in front of them, presenting a wickedly curved athame. He was a well-built man with long red hair in intricate braids; piercings that looked like tusks jutted from his cheeks. “Call the name Ardashir,” he instructed. “Plead for her aid as you bleed into the Well. If your offering is accepted, you will know it right away. She will speak to your soul. Do not tell anyone what you see. It is sacred. We are only to know when we pass from life and are drawn back to the sanctuary of the Well. Then we will all share such things in our souls.”
The reservoir hardly seemed like a well. He took the athame and cut their forearm to an unwise length. Even Hilarius didn’t intervene, though they could see his face blanched pale out of the corners of their eyes. What was being made worthy actually worth to their Master? Of course any druid worth their circle would have healing herbs on hand - or had Hilarius become too much of the imperial officer? They thought of home as they closed their eyes and let the blood seep into the water. The oak trees encircling the town; the flowing river; the globemallow and penstemon blooming in the spring; gathering yarrow when the air was cool in the evening…. Listening to the cry of the red-tailed hawk through the canopy….
“Please,” they whispered. “If I have any evil blood, take it from me. Take my soul, take my blood, take my life if it will let them be free. Take anything from me if it will stop me from hurting them. If I’m truly cursed, take it.”
The voice that replied didn’t seem to be heard by anyone else. The legionaries that had come with Hilarius remained still and silent, heads bowed respectfully farther back, on the dry edge of the reservoir. Their cloaks and boots were kept clean, expressions stoic. Hilarius had his eyes closed in some meditation of his own. The de Leon attendants continued to chant.
“Child, your curse would be a blessing to any one of us. They call monstrous what they see as obscene. Is it obscene to hunger? Is it obscene to bleed?” The voice was wryly amused and raspy, the accent was from the heart of the empire. “I accept your offering. Your soul may always find rest here, if none other claims your light, or by your choosing.”
“Thank you,” they murmured. “If you wish to overpower these ones who have your heart in chains, just ask, and I will unleash the curse of your blood again. It is an easy thing to embrace. The shape would be natural to you.” A pause. “But I see you are set on a path of suffering. Many of my companions have been down that path. Take a bit of the water, and if you will have their companionship when you are in need.”
Their fingers fumbled, numb with cold, to the pouch at their belt, and obeyed, storing a bit of the water in an empty potion vial. “Who are you?” they whispered.
“A child of a monster, like yourself. Lamia. I sleep here until my companions call upon me to unleash destruction on this world.” They didn’t dare to ask for that same sleep. They tucked away the vial with some difficulty as the attendants finished their chant. “Very well, I’ll activate the stones.” Hilarius had opened his eyes as well. “Stay close, we don’t want anything else getting through the gate.” He pressed a hand against the nearest carved stone, speaking only a few short words in a sharp tone - the tongue of druids - and the runes all lit up with a brilliant white light. The ghostly image of a gate appeared in the reservoir - a tall gate of entwined bone and ivory, antler and tusk. Beyond the pale white outline, the sorceress Avita bent to pluck a blue lotus flower from an immense water garden, a chaos of blue flowers all in bloom. Her wavy auburn hair fell over her neck; her rosy gown was damp up to her knees, complimenting her golden brown skin. The summer sun set her all aglow, the water reflecting the riot of color through the immaterial gate. She smiled and straightened as she saw them passing through.
“I have just the thing for you, dear. Hilarius, you old rogue, you took the back way! Come in, come in!” Her smile grew stronger. Sun rays scattered over the garden as wisps of clouds moved overhead. “You know, if you’d let me know you were coming today, I could have used the new harvest. The spirits of the lotus are so much stronger with the new crop!” Her voice was lyrical, almost trembling with delight as she looked at each of them. “But I suppose the tried and true will still bring our poor Princeps relief.”
“Indeed,” said Hilarius, as shortly as possible while remaining just shy of rude. He grasped Bran again by the shoulder and steered him after Avita’s damp footsteps.
“Thank you,” said Bran, wincing as Hilarius squeezed their shoulder forcefully at the joint. “Thank you Avita” They reclined at the offered chaise in the atrium. Hilarius stood over them as Avita summoned a servant with a tray of drinks. The pale blue tisane was for Bran, and they drank down the bitterness, tasting as little as they could. Their tongue felt heavy. They hoped further speech would not be required.
“Octavo will be coming to make the handover tomorrow,” said Avita smoothly, after she and Hilarius had sipped a sufficient amount of sweet summer wine.
“Really, Octavo?”
“The Master spoke,” said Avita, curling a lock of hair around her finger in an absent motion. “Would you question his ways? He has a special plan for the Princeps. I imagine there may be a few stops on the way to worthiness.”
“I can imagine,” said Hilarius dryly. “How long will the lotus root last?”
“I will send a supply with you. The powdered version can be easily mixed with any potable water.”
“How long, though, Avita? We have to keep an eye on him, you see.”
“Oh?” She turned her sunbeam of a smile down to their quiescent captive. “You should swear an oath to Lord Summanus now, and we can dispense with all this silly baby-sitting, dear.” “Should I?” Bran dared, as Hilarius was taking a long drink of wine.
Avita laughed at that. “The lotus will help you see,” she said without any abatement of cheer. “It gives such delightful dreams. It will take away your worries and pains. By the time they bring you to the Master, you’ll be fine, fine, fine. You’ll see, dear.”
“Have them bring another dose,” said Hilarius. “Is it every four hours? Or eight? I’ll warn you, we’ll need double supply for this one. He never even got tipsy at the officer’s dinners.”
Avita drained her own drink and summoned another tray for them. “Of course, dear. Easy to oblige,” she assured. “I’ll send you off with everything that you could need for the journey.” She passed Bran another blue-tinted tisane.
They looked down at it. They could feel their eyes on him. The bitterness coated every corner of their mouth. Some part of their mind was softening, opening up, a feeling not quite like dozing off to a nap, but to… something else, some other state. Their fingers felt strange - as clumsy as paws - as they tipped it into their mouth. Their breath felt as heavy as fog. They gaped as if they were drowning as their eyes closed. Their head fell heavily onto the chaise.
Their words were faint and distorted, like they were under water.
…must make him worthy for the master… make sure Octavo appoints someone…. Sirras, or Khrysa those heroes out looking
Expect a months-long regiment
Don’t let him transform make sure the name is rightThe bloodline? Really? Find a good healer
Ad usum delphini
don’t let him remember