Dreams of Gods & Monsters(106)
Author: Laini Taylor

Ziri. And she knew the feel of his soul from when she’d put it in this body, and hope, hope would just never learn.

Of course his soul would be gone. It could never have survived this long in the open, or such a journey. Of course it had evanesced. But Karou still opened her senses to it, because she couldn’t not try. Did I do everything I could? And still she held her breath, as invisible tears tracked down her invisible cheeks. And still she hoped.

Absence has presence, sometimes, and that was what she felt. Absence like crushed-dead grass where something has been and is no longer. Absence where a thread has been ripped, ragged, from a tapestry, leaving a gap that can never be mended.

That was all she felt.

72

THE SEVERAL DAYS’ EMPEROR

Mood incrementally improved, Jael bulled his way toward his pavilion, trailing his retinue of guards. The soldiers in the watchtowers had saluted him on approach, and one leapt down to glide up short and stride at his side.

“Report,” Jael barked, removing his helmet and tossing it to him. “The rebels?”

“We trapped them in the Adelphas, sir—”

Jael whirled on him. “Sir?” he repeated. He didn’t recognize the soldier. “Am I not your emperor as well as your general?”

The soldier bowed his head, flustered. “Eminence?” he ventured. “My lord emperor? We cornered the rebels in the Adelphas. Misbegotten and revenants together, if you can credit it.”

Oh, Jael could credit it. He gave out a hiss of a laugh.

“I’m not lying, sir,” said the soldier, mistaking him. Again, sir.

Jael’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And?”

“They put up a valiant defense,” said the soldier, and Jael read the rest in his smirk. A valiant defense was a doomed defense. It was what he expected, especially after the sight of the White Wolf’s corpse, and it was all he needed to know for now. Jael’s blood was thrumming with pent-up frustration, and his muscles were rage-tense. He’d been meek as a rabbit—a neutered rabbit—for days in that infernal palace, not daring to injure his reputation by answering his own hungers. And all for what? To be chased away like a skulking dog? He hadn’t even dared slay the Fallen for fear of defying the bastard Akiva’s prohibition of bloodshed.

He looked around for his steward. “Where is Mechel?”

“I don’t know, my lord emperor. Can I assist you?”

Jael gave a grudging grunt. “Send me a woman,” he said, and turned to go.

“No need, sir. There’s one already in your tent, waiting for you.” Still that smirk. “A victory celebration.”

Jael hauled off and backhanded the soldier, whose expression scarcely altered as the slap turned his head from east to west. A thread of blood appeared at his lip, and he did nothing to stanch it.

“Do I look victorious to you?” Jael seethed at him. He held up his empty hands. “Do you see all my new weapons? I can scarcely carry them all! That’s my victory!” He felt his face empurpling and was reminded of his brother, whose rages had been famous, and murderous. Jael prided himself on being a creature of cunning, not temper, and cunning meant killing not in passion but in coolness.

So he just shoved the soldier aside—fixing the smirk in his memory for a more considered punishment later—and marched into his pavilion, tearing at his ridiculous white pageant garb and giving a hiss of pain when he peeled at the place the scorched silk had hardened against the weeping flesh of his wound, reopening it.

He cursed. The pain was a throbbing reminder of his failure and vulnerability. He needed to remember his own might. He needed to get his blood moving, his breath flowing, to prove who he—

He stopped short. The bed was empty.

His eyes narrowed. Where was the woman, then? Hiding? Cowering? Well. His heat rose. That would make a fine beginning.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he rasped, turning in a slow circle.

The pavilion was dim, the canvas walls hung with furs to keep out both wind and light. No lanterns were lit. The only illumination came from Jael’s own wings…

… and the woman’s.

There.

She was not hiding. She was not cowering. She was at his desk. Jael bristled. The wench was sitting at his war desk, languid in his chair, all his campaign charts spread before her as she rolled a paperweight back and forth beneath her palm. Her other hand, he did not fail to note, rested on the hilt of a sword.

“What are you doing?” he growled.

“Waiting for you.”

There was no fear in the voice, no coyness or humility. She was backlit by her own wings, and, besides, a shadowy stillness seemed to cloak her, so that Jael could make out only the shape of her as he strode forward, ready to yank her out of his chair by her hair. And that was better than if she were hiding, better than cowering. Maybe she would even resist—

He saw her face, and faltered to a stop.

If he was slow to process the ramifications of this visit it was only because it was unthinkable. He had deployed four thousand Dominion to crush rebels numbering less than five hundred, and they had, and they had brought back the White Wolf’s body as proof, and besides, the guards—

Behind him, the soldier he hadn’t recognized spoke from the doorway, having entered without summons or permission. “Oh, I should clarify,” he said, smirking away. “I didn’t mean a celebration of your victory. Sir. But of ours.”

Jael sputtered.

Drawing sword from sheath in one smooth motion, Liraz rose from her chair.

“Karou,” said Akiva, as they moved silently through the camp.

“Yes?” she whispered. The deserted camp was eerie, but she knew it wouldn’t stay this way for long. The troops would arrive soon enough, and then it would be dangerous for them to stay. If they were going to move on Jael, they should do it now.

To her shock, though, Akiva abruptly dropped his glamour.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, alarmed. They were in full view of a guard tower, and Jael’s personal escort had scarcely dispersed. They could be anywhere. Why, then, didn’t Akiva look concerned?

Why did he look… amazed?

“That soldier,” he said, indicating the emperor’s pavilion, and the guard who had just slipped inside it behind Jael. “That was Xathanael.”

Liraz. Jael had to blink because the queer cloak of darkness shifted and seemed to move with her as she came out from behind the desk. Long legs, long stride, no hurry. Liraz of the Misbegotten came forth with an escort of darkness, and her hands were ink-black with all the lives she had taken, and the darkness that cloaked her had taken as many or more. Moving like mercury, it resolved into forms by her sides.