she had lingered in stasis in a sarcophagus, until the day Saric brought her painfully back to life on an altar.
She held a plate of warm venison on her lap, leaned back in the wing-backed chair. Her bare foot rested atop the head of the lion still attached to the hide that sprawled beneath the table, the hem of her dark shift pooling on the floor. The curtains were thrown wide to the rare, late-morning sun—in fact, they had never closed. No one had seen her glide down the Citadel hall to her chamber in the hour just before dawn or return through the back passage a scant three hours later.
She rarely slept—her physical needs had changed since the day of her resurrection.
There had been another raid, late in the night, just south of the Citadel. Eight of her warriors had gone missing. Their bodies had turned up early this morning, on pikes just beyond the city. Thesight incited a panic in the first morning commute. Seth, her new captain, had begged to reinforce the city perimeter. He was chiseled and handsome as a god, having been personally designed by and for her. And so she had named him after the ancient god of Chaos. He was devoted as a lover and feral as a wolf—one that would die to protect her…. or slit his own throat if she but asked it. He had no choice; it was in his chemistry.
She had calmly pointed out that to bolster perimeter defenses would lessen the concentric ranks of Dark Bloods around the Citadel itself. The very thing, no doubt, that Roland wanted.
The Immortal was either preparing for a major offensive or frustrated by his inability to reach the Citadel. Feyn could have commanded twenty thousand men to sweep into the hills, but she would only be throwing her Dark Bloods like so many stones into a ravine. The day would come when a new harvest of Dark Bloods would emerge from her labs. No matter how many Corpses Roland turned Immortal, he could not train them quickly enough to outman her unending supply of warriors. His fighters might seem nearly supernatural, but sheer numbers would win this war.
Still, he fascinated her as much for his aggression as for the rumors of his brood’s eerie ways. She would shed a tear, perhaps, on the day his head adorned the great Citadel gate, if only because there would be no more foe of interest. No foe at all.
She lifted the fork from the plate, toyed with the edge of meat so tender it required no knife. She’d once taken great pleasure in the rite of every meal. Life itself had fascinated her by its very process. Her craving for food, for the sun that fell through the window onto her skin, for water falling over her thighs in the bath and dripping from her hair—it had all intoxicated her once, just as the fealty of nations and the stripping of their power had intoxicated her the day she’d dismantled the senate.
But only for a while.
She bit into the meat, a portion larger than what might beconsidered couth, and then tossed the plate onto the table, watching the fork scatter across its surface.
She heard a knock at the side door.
She took her time chewing and swallowing the venison, neatly wiping the juice from her chin. Then she rose from the chair and paced toward the window, where the dull light of day shone through her dressing gown like a scrim.
“What is it?” she said.
Corban’s voice sounded through the door. “My liege, we have a prisoner of interest.”
“Come.”
The door opened and the master alchemist entered, dropping to his knee. His hair hung past his shoulders toward the floor, nearly touching it. His strange and silent Corpse acolyte, Ammon, knelt two paces behind.
“What kind of interest?” She folded her arms, studying the master alchemist. It strained him to kneel. She could see it in the tension on his forehead.
“A live Sovereign, my liege.” He lifted his head slightly, his gaze crawling out to the rug just beneath her bare feet. “Rom Sebastian, leader of the infidels.”
She went very still. Was it
She held a plate of warm venison on her lap, leaned back in the wing-backed chair. Her bare foot rested atop the head of the lion still attached to the hide that sprawled beneath the table, the hem of her dark shift pooling on the floor. The curtains were thrown wide to the rare, late-morning sun—in fact, they had never closed. No one had seen her glide down the Citadel hall to her chamber in the hour just before dawn or return through the back passage a scant three hours later.
She rarely slept—her physical needs had changed since the day of her resurrection.
There had been another raid, late in the night, just south of the Citadel. Eight of her warriors had gone missing. Their bodies had turned up early this morning, on pikes just beyond the city. Thesight incited a panic in the first morning commute. Seth, her new captain, had begged to reinforce the city perimeter. He was chiseled and handsome as a god, having been personally designed by and for her. And so she had named him after the ancient god of Chaos. He was devoted as a lover and feral as a wolf—one that would die to protect her…. or slit his own throat if she but asked it. He had no choice; it was in his chemistry.
She had calmly pointed out that to bolster perimeter defenses would lessen the concentric ranks of Dark Bloods around the Citadel itself. The very thing, no doubt, that Roland wanted.
The Immortal was either preparing for a major offensive or frustrated by his inability to reach the Citadel. Feyn could have commanded twenty thousand men to sweep into the hills, but she would only be throwing her Dark Bloods like so many stones into a ravine. The day would come when a new harvest of Dark Bloods would emerge from her labs. No matter how many Corpses Roland turned Immortal, he could not train them quickly enough to outman her unending supply of warriors. His fighters might seem nearly supernatural, but sheer numbers would win this war.
Still, he fascinated her as much for his aggression as for the rumors of his brood’s eerie ways. She would shed a tear, perhaps, on the day his head adorned the great Citadel gate, if only because there would be no more foe of interest. No foe at all.
She lifted the fork from the plate, toyed with the edge of meat so tender it required no knife. She’d once taken great pleasure in the rite of every meal. Life itself had fascinated her by its very process. Her craving for food, for the sun that fell through the window onto her skin, for water falling over her thighs in the bath and dripping from her hair—it had all intoxicated her once, just as the fealty of nations and the stripping of their power had intoxicated her the day she’d dismantled the senate.
But only for a while.
She bit into the meat, a portion larger than what might beconsidered couth, and then tossed the plate onto the table, watching the fork scatter across its surface.
She heard a knock at the side door.
She took her time chewing and swallowing the venison, neatly wiping the juice from her chin. Then she rose from the chair and paced toward the window, where the dull light of day shone through her dressing gown like a scrim.
“What is it?” she said.
Corban’s voice sounded through the door. “My liege, we have a prisoner of interest.”
“Come.”
The door opened and the master alchemist entered, dropping to his knee. His hair hung past his shoulders toward the floor, nearly touching it. His strange and silent Corpse acolyte, Ammon, knelt two paces behind.
“What kind of interest?” She folded her arms, studying the master alchemist. It strained him to kneel. She could see it in the tension on his forehead.
“A live Sovereign, my liege.” He lifted his head slightly, his gaze crawling out to the rug just beneath her bare feet. “Rom Sebastian, leader of the infidels.”
She went very still. Was it
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