?”
“It’s just religious speak.”
He laid down the vellum. Avra picked it up, her lips moving as she reread the lines of the only legible paragraph.
Rom lifted the vial, held it to the candlelight. He had recoiled from it the first time. Now he watched the way it clung to the inside of the old glass. The liquid was so dark that it only hinted at the deepest shade of red in the candelabra’s meager light.
Drink blood? Unthinkable, yes.
But murder had been unthinkable to him just hours earlier. Life without his mother had been unthinkable. Running from authority. All unthinkable.
And all had become reality.
He tried to turn the metal seal. It didn’t budge. He twisted harder.
“What are you doing?”
The seal gave way with a metallic scrape.
“I just want to smell it.”
“Don’t!”
He twisted and pulled. The vial opened with a swift gasp, as though drawing breath for the first time in centuries.
He sniffed it. Metal and salt. Grave danger and life.
He knew what he was thinking before he logically reasoned it out.
So did Avra. “Rom! Don’t!”
He tipped it up to his lips. He took a small sip. Made a face. A stale, metallic taste filled his mouth.
“Well, it’s definitely blood.”
“You’re crazy! Put it back!”
He held the vial up to the candlelight, noted the first measure line of the vial. Enough for five.
“Do you have a better option?”
“Yes! Not drinking poison!”
He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s poison. But if I’m wrong, leave the vial with my body and go somewhere safe until they find me.”
He turned, lifted the bottle to his lips, and threw back one mouthful—enough to take the volume down to the first measure.
Avra watched him, aghast.
He had to force himself to swallow. The stuff was foul. More than stale. Bitter. He wondered for an eerie moment if Avra was right about its being poison after all.
He recapped the vial and waited. Nothing. He turned back to her, held out his hands.
“You’re a reckless fool!” Avra said, the color drained from her face.
“Maybe.” He set the vial back in the box. “But now we know what—”
A force struck him like a steel beam to the gut. He dropped to one knee, grabbed at the table. Missed.
“Rom!”
Fire burned through his veins. He collapsed on the floor and curled up, clawing at his belly. By the time he began convulsing, he was only vaguely aware of Avra kneeling next to him. His legs kicked out at the stack of chairs. One of them crashed down onto the floor almost on top of them both.
She was right. It was poison.
Fear flooded his world and turned it black.
Chapter Six
T he heels of Saric’s boots echoed sharply as hammer-falls along the upper corridor that led to the Residence of the Office. The passage was lined by the busts of past Sovereigns and draped by velvet and silk gold-threaded tapestries—gifts upon the occasion of Vorrin’s inauguration nearly forty years prior. Saric had never noticed until today just how dusty and threadbare they had become.
Their replacements had already begun to arrive in the Citadel’s large receiving yard. Crates of gifts, the favors of nations and the leaders that led them, reminders of the world beyond this one…the token presence of the nations and the one billion souls that populated them.
The vaulted ceilings of the atrium, painted gold centuries before, shone down with false sun, their cracks and peeling testament to the ancient age of this capitol that endured history and looked toward the future at once.
Two of the elite guard openly watched Saric as he approached the outer chamber.
“School your gaze,” Saric snapped as he passed, despising the peevish sound of his own voice as he said it. It was the poison—the poison pulsing through his veins. It had tested his resolve to retain a sensible composure since he’d first been filled with it and its dark offspring: passion, ambition, lust, greed.
Anger.
He could hardly sleep for the wars
“It’s just religious speak.”
He laid down the vellum. Avra picked it up, her lips moving as she reread the lines of the only legible paragraph.
Rom lifted the vial, held it to the candlelight. He had recoiled from it the first time. Now he watched the way it clung to the inside of the old glass. The liquid was so dark that it only hinted at the deepest shade of red in the candelabra’s meager light.
Drink blood? Unthinkable, yes.
But murder had been unthinkable to him just hours earlier. Life without his mother had been unthinkable. Running from authority. All unthinkable.
And all had become reality.
He tried to turn the metal seal. It didn’t budge. He twisted harder.
“What are you doing?”
The seal gave way with a metallic scrape.
“I just want to smell it.”
“Don’t!”
He twisted and pulled. The vial opened with a swift gasp, as though drawing breath for the first time in centuries.
He sniffed it. Metal and salt. Grave danger and life.
He knew what he was thinking before he logically reasoned it out.
So did Avra. “Rom! Don’t!”
He tipped it up to his lips. He took a small sip. Made a face. A stale, metallic taste filled his mouth.
“Well, it’s definitely blood.”
“You’re crazy! Put it back!”
He held the vial up to the candlelight, noted the first measure line of the vial. Enough for five.
“Do you have a better option?”
“Yes! Not drinking poison!”
He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s poison. But if I’m wrong, leave the vial with my body and go somewhere safe until they find me.”
He turned, lifted the bottle to his lips, and threw back one mouthful—enough to take the volume down to the first measure.
Avra watched him, aghast.
He had to force himself to swallow. The stuff was foul. More than stale. Bitter. He wondered for an eerie moment if Avra was right about its being poison after all.
He recapped the vial and waited. Nothing. He turned back to her, held out his hands.
“You’re a reckless fool!” Avra said, the color drained from her face.
“Maybe.” He set the vial back in the box. “But now we know what—”
A force struck him like a steel beam to the gut. He dropped to one knee, grabbed at the table. Missed.
“Rom!”
Fire burned through his veins. He collapsed on the floor and curled up, clawing at his belly. By the time he began convulsing, he was only vaguely aware of Avra kneeling next to him. His legs kicked out at the stack of chairs. One of them crashed down onto the floor almost on top of them both.
She was right. It was poison.
Fear flooded his world and turned it black.
Chapter Six
T he heels of Saric’s boots echoed sharply as hammer-falls along the upper corridor that led to the Residence of the Office. The passage was lined by the busts of past Sovereigns and draped by velvet and silk gold-threaded tapestries—gifts upon the occasion of Vorrin’s inauguration nearly forty years prior. Saric had never noticed until today just how dusty and threadbare they had become.
Their replacements had already begun to arrive in the Citadel’s large receiving yard. Crates of gifts, the favors of nations and the leaders that led them, reminders of the world beyond this one…the token presence of the nations and the one billion souls that populated them.
The vaulted ceilings of the atrium, painted gold centuries before, shone down with false sun, their cracks and peeling testament to the ancient age of this capitol that endured history and looked toward the future at once.
Two of the elite guard openly watched Saric as he approached the outer chamber.
“School your gaze,” Saric snapped as he passed, despising the peevish sound of his own voice as he said it. It was the poison—the poison pulsing through his veins. It had tested his resolve to retain a sensible composure since he’d first been filled with it and its dark offspring: passion, ambition, lust, greed.
Anger.
He could hardly sleep for the wars
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