Ruler, Rival, Exile. Морган Райс

but she knew it was part of what made Thanos who he was. It was part of what she loved about him.

      “Foolish,” the Bone Folk woman was saying with a smile. “Wonderfully foolish. Thank you.”

      Ceres looked around at the boats nearest to them. All of them were up in arms now, many of the sailors aboard rushing for weapons. An arrow hit the water near them, then another.

      “Row!” she yelled to the combatlords, but where could they row to? Already, she could see the other ships moving to intercept them. Soon, there would be no way out. It was the kind of situation where she might have used her powers before, but now she didn’t have them.

      Please, Mother, she begged in the quiet of her mind, you helped me before. Help me now.

      She felt her mother’s presence somewhere on the edge of her being, ephemeral and calming. She could feel her mother’s attention, looking through her, trying to work out what had happened to her.

      “What have they done to you?” her mother’s voice whispered. “This is the sorcerer’s work.”

      “Please,” Ceres said. “I don’t need my powers back forever, but I need help now.”

      In the pause that followed, an arrow struck the deck between Ceres’s feet. It was too close by far.

      “I cannot undo what has been done,” her mother said. “But I can lend you another gift, this one time. It will only be once, though. I do not think your body could stand more.”

      Ceres didn’t care, so long as they escaped. Already, boats were closing in. They needed this.

      “Touch the water, Ceres, and forgive me, because this will hurt.”

      Ceres didn’t question it. Instead, she placed her hand on the waves, feeling the wetness flow around her skin. She braced herself…

      …and she still had to fight to keep from screaming as something poured through her, shimmering out across the water, then up through the air. It seemed as though someone had drawn a gauze veil across the world.

      Through it, Ceres could see archers and warriors staring in shock. She could hear them shouting in surprise, but the sounds seemed muted.

      “They complain that they cannot see us,” Jeva said. “They say that it is dark magic.” She looked at Ceres with something like awe. “It seems that you are everything Thanos said you would be.”

      Ceres wasn’t sure about that. Just holding this hurt more than she could believe. She wasn’t sure how long she would be able to keep it up.

      “Row,” she said. “Row before it fades!”

      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