The Half-Lives Series

Dark Designs

79 CE

Pax magica.

From Rome, the mage Senate snaked into other countries. Pax magica, magic peace, bought them the right to rule whatever they conquered. Mage slaves were a powerful resource, offering them majestic blood sports in the arena, living spell components, breeding stock.

The Darkness watched and the Darkness loved . . .

The Darkness liked.

It was still dark when Silvanus woke.

He stirred, feeling soft skin and silk on either side of him. For a moment, he was tempted to return to sleep.

Then, he realized that the magic he’d woven into the air in the dormus was still heavy. The mountain was many miles to the east, but it had not yet finished vomiting ash. He should rise and begin their preparations to leave.

Silvanus rose. Despite his care, the man to his left shifted. The movement drew the sheet over him down, revealing the small of his back and a hint of the curve of his ass.

“Hmm?” Ryen murmured.

The quiet sound stirred the figure to Silvanus’ right. Neisha blinked sleepily and then focused pale, nutmeg brown eyes on him.

“Sshh,” Silvanus whispered. Then, because he did not want either of them to worry, added, “It’s nothing.”

Ryen went back to sleep; Neisha drew closer to Ryen. Ryen was light, with hair the color of pomegranate arils and eyes the pale green of colewort leaves. Neisha had dusky skin and long hair that crooked like her smile.

Right now, those lips were set in a serious line. Silvanus had hired her to guard Ryen. Guard she would, though it obviously perplexed her when she joined them.

Silvanus understood. While Ryen had come to Rome to talk to the Senate, Neisha had come to Rome to destroy them. Ironic, that she ended up working for one of the mages she supposedly loathed.

He quietly gauged the spells around the dormus as he slipped into a tunic. They were straying under the weight of the ash. Like snow, the ash continued falling. Like snow, it covered everything.

Silvanus pushed his gauge past the ash, which the earth mage in the Senate thought was a predecessor to lava. He and Silvanus had seen the molten liquid years before, and while Silvanus thought there was a connection between that and now--

A sense of rolling chaos crashed over him.

Silvanus broke the spell. Obscurum. What in Darkness was that?

Frowning, he left the room.

When Vesuvius unleashed the ash, the Senate in the city gathered in his atrium. Their spells found more ash and a scourge of deadly air near the mountain. They were far from it. They were safe.

The chaos Silvanus had just felt did not make him feel safe, though. He did not know what it was, but he no longer wanted to keep them there.

Outside, magic hummed quietly in the atrium. The quiet sound bothered Silvanus. He’d designed the spells to be subtle.

A good deal of Silvanus’ power was wound around the spells protecting the dormus. When the mountain settled, or if it spewed lava, the magic would shield them. When they left, the spells would follow.

Silvanus walked around the room. The space was dark, and though the spells kept the air fresh, bits of ash fell through the opening in the roof, tainting the water in the fountain.

His frown deepened. The ash should not have been able to slip inside and turn the water black. What--

Something moved up ahead.

Silvanus continued walking, keeping his pace even. There was a whisper of metal sliding against leather. Around his wrist, an intricately wound wood bracelet grew warm, enabling him to see in the shadowed room.

At the hall entrance, the twin statues of Rome’s founders waited. Behind Romulus, a figure crouched. Just a few feet closer and Silvanus would see-- A breeze, as warm as a summer night, crept over him.

“Cccyn . . .”

Silvanus turned his face into the wind, trying to catch and study it. There was a gentleness there. So strange. The only person he knew who could speak through the air had no affection for him.

The figure moved out from behind the statue.

It--he--lashed out, brushing the knife past Silvanus’ throat.

Silvanus jerked back, feeling a brush of air where the blade had almost been. As he moved, he sent a wave of heat into the assassin’s face, drawing the moisture out of his eyes.

The assassin’s eyes locked shut.

Silvanus gathered fire magic. He would incinerate the intruder and then rouse Ryen and--

“Cccynn . . .”

The word was as soft as a serpent’s dying breath. It encircled Silvanus. Something in the word, the tone, captured him. Who was calling him?

“Darkness,” the assassin whispered.

A chill stabbed Silvanus. What did he say?

The assassin stepped forward, drawing the blade along Silvanus’s arm. Silvanus drew back. Pain bit into his wound, focusing him. Never mind the wind. He had to deal with this man.

The assassin followed him, his eyes still clenched shut. He echoed Silvanus’ steps, initiating a one step, dart back, dance.

The assassin darted forward, raising his knife and--

“Cccynnwolf.”

Enough.

Silvanus stepped into his path, knocking the blade out of the assassin’s hand. With his other hand, he reached for the assassin’s throat. Silvanus would burn him--

The assassin moved back, making Silvanus’s fingers clench over air. The earth shook.

Silvanus stumbled, falling back against the wall. The chaos he’d sensed before now frayed the edges of his spells around the dormus, warning him.

Of what, though? As long as mages had lived there, the mountain had never--

The assassin grabbed the blade off the ground and went after him.

One strike, missed his left eye. Second strike, missed his throat.

A bracelet-clad arm struck out from beside him, slamming the man across the atrium.

Silvanus glanced at the arm’s wielder. Neisha crept past him toward the assassin, one arm crouched beside her, the other high. Battle stance.

“Why aren’t you with Ryen?” Silvanus asked.

“He thought you needed the help more,” Ryen said behind him.

The words were soft. Their secret, Silvanus realized.

Despite the mountain and the assassin, he was charmed. In Rome a mage did not get far by acknowledging weaknesses. Alone, Silvanus thought a man could become a cripple if he did not show vulnerability.

Across the atrium, the assassin stirred, and then pushed himself up.

“Something is happening with the mountain,” Ryen said.

Fear stabbed Silvanus. Ryen’s magic was nothing more than a strong spirit but if he felt endangered--

“Neisha,” Silvanus said. “Take Ryen and go.”

A loud rumbling sound swept over them.

The earth shook, sending Silvanus against the wall, and Neisha and Ryan onto the ground. The assassin crawled closer. Faster.

A smell of sulfur, and burning wood, crept over Silvanus. The edges of his spells fractured, allowing clumps of ash to rain in.

“It’s found you,” the assassin whispered, staring at Silvanus. “It’s found--”

“Cccynwolf.”

Darkness.

Knowledge ghosted over Silvanus. He knew what he was, just as he knew that there was a cloud of smoldering gas and fire racing toward the town, devouring everything in its path.

“Cccynwolf. My frrriend. Rrrun.”

Silvanus snatched the raw power in the approaching cloud and surrounded them. This chaos would not have them. He would spell them far from there.

The walls exploded toward them.

Heat brushed against him, blossoming into pain. Silvanus--Cynwolf gathered the others close and--

Darkness.

When Cynwolf awoke, he was on a boat. Across the water, a small, smoldering shadow devoured the land.

He rose. There was no sound around him. Even the lap of water against the boat seemed distant. Silent.

Dead.

To Cynwolf, this was the sound of war. Not the crash of swords or the whimper of the dying, but silence. The sound of the battlefield, after giving mercy to both enemy and friend alike.

It was the worst sound in the world. “Sshhh.”

The wind traced over him, brushing ash away from skin and hair. When it played over a nearby sconce, it lit it, sending a bright blue flame up.

Cynwolf sighed, drinking in the sounds. Since the mages stopped Banewolf, many scholars had theorized that her master was aloof. Not true, Cynwolf realized. In its way, the Darkness cared.

Two feet away, the assassin slowly rose. A few feet past him, Ryen and Neisha stirred.

The assassin picked up something. Firelight glinted off a long band, and Cynwolf realized that it was the knife.

The wind played over them, making a soft shhing sound.

The man trembled.

And then dropped to his knees.

“Forgive me,” he said, offering the blade.

“Sshhh.” Cynwolf took the knife. Behind the man, Neisha and Ryen pushed themselves up. “No harm was done. There is nothing to forgive.”

80 CE

She carried the missive to a bench and read it. Then, she read it again. The missive from Solander was short. The Roman soldiers had left. More surprising, he’d been left in control.

Neisha, forgive my harsh words. Please come home.

Neisha released the missive, letting it roll shut. Home . . .

It had been five months since the eruption. Since then, she’d thought often of her home, of her family, and the way the sands swept across the land like tides of water. She knew who she was there. Here . . .

You will lose yourself, Neisha.

Dear brother. Did anyone truly know who they were in Rome?

Neisha eyed the missive. Perhaps she should return. She could tell Solander about the things she’d learned. Together, they could find ways to work within Senate society without becoming enslaved to it.

“I see you’ve received your brother’s message,” Silvanus said.

Neisha turned. Silvanus stood behind her. His toga was wrapped carefully around him, with one end falling over the crook of his arm. His dark hair coiled loosely about his shoulders and his eyes, that ghost blue of early evening, shone.

He looked pleased. Neisha wondered if his Senate meeting had gone well and if he’d had a peaceful trip back to his villa outside Rome. They rarely indulged in such common conversations. Neisha almost mourned it.

“I trust he’s well?” Silvanus asked.

Who?

Oh. By Darshan’s Bones, he was asking about Solander.

“Yes,” she said. “Did you know about the soldiers withdrawing?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” From years of study, Neisha knew that the Senate never did anything that would not benefit them first.

Silvanus smiled. Despite herself, despite the knowledge that he was a Senator and had partaken in the war that cost the Egyptian mages their freedom over a century before, his expression pleased Neisha. The man was luscious and when he smiled he came alive.

“Because I knew it would please you,” he said.

You will lose yourself, Neisha.

But if it saved their country, wouldn’t it be worth it?

“There’s more,” Silvanus said.

Neisha wasn’t surprised. With the Senate there was often more. It was the hidden things one had to watch out for.

Silvanus took her hand and led her into his tablinum. The small room looked out over the atrium and served as Silvanus’ study.

The room was large, with scrolls lining shelves on two walls, an incense stand in one corner, and a long table and low sofas in the center.

Silvanus led her to the table. On it was a display of four tall plaster buildings surrounding a square, with a tall fountain in the center. Neisha stepped closer to the table. The design was different from other Roman structures. How strange . . .

How familiar.

“Do you like them?” Silvanus asked.

“Yes.” How could she not? She’d designed them.

Neisha trailed her fingers over the small sculptures. Before Rome, she had been an architect, and this was to be a school. The attacks had come before the buildings were finished, and for years Neisha had kept the designs close, hoping that one day she’d be able to build them.

Only now, she did not want a school. She had seen the short work soldiers did against others and knew that mages could be taught anywhere. It was warriors that needed to be trained in numbers. Mages that would fight for others, hide evidence of their existence, and not obey any single government. A defender of magekind, subject to magekind.

How did Silvanus find out about it?

Perhaps it had been his assassin. The man kept to the shadows and might have overheard her telling Ryen about her plans.

Silvanus had adopted the Gaul miscreant after the fire cloud destroyed Herculaneum. Neisha did not trust the man, but Silvanus seemed fond of him. For his part, the assassin, Avon, was fervently respectful to Silvanus. Neisha occasionally wondered if Silvanus’ transportation spell had addled him.

“I know I have been negligent since we left Herculaneum,” Silvanus said. “I regret not spending as much time with you and Ryen. Think of this as a small gift, and forgive me.”

“I--” Neisha shook her head. Joining him in his bed was not without its charms, but she preferred to work outside of it. She may no longer have her noble station, but she enjoyed protecting Ryen. He was exotic and sweet natured. He was going to get himself killed.

Silvanus’ smile faded. “Neisha?”

“I do not want the Senate to control this.”

“They won’t. I called some favors and got them to vote that this should remain outside of their authority.”

“How?”

“Herculaneum.”

Ah.

The town, once named for a hero, had become known as the Senate’s folly. They had voted on remaining. Other mages followed their example. The ones outside the mountain’s destruction were now upset at the Senate for gambling with other’s lives.

Silvanus may have been a part of that group, but the fact that he’d originally voted against staying had endeared him to the populace. He’d suffered fatigue for his spells and lost so much. He was their hero.

And he chose to spend his power on her. On her country’s mages.

“Thank you,” she said.

Silvanus smiled. The expression was like a curved blade, cutting through her and making her concerns bleed away. Senators should not be trusted. He was a Senator. She should not trust him . . .

Someone help her. She trusted him.

“I was thinking each building could reflect a different culture,” he said.

“Persia.” He touched one building, and then moved to the next. “Rome. Britannia. Ryen has some interesting ideas for the name of the group.”

Ryen.

Neisha kept her smile in place. She’d wondered how Silvanus discovered her designs. Now she knew.

Anger and worry warred inside her. Just as she feared losing herself to Rome, she feared it was too late for Ryen. His half-Roman blood made him an outsider in his homeland. Here, he was exotic. Here, he had Silvanus.

Ryen carried the scroll over to the sofa below the window. He’d found it buried in the back of Silvanus’ collection, with a note stating that it had come from the Egyptian campaign.

He’d frowned, not surprised that Silvanus had been involved in that invasion, and yet disappointed. The man he knew was thoughtful and funny. The man who’d graciously invited him into his home had been his father’s apprentice ages before. He was kind where others in the Senate had been aloof. Charming. Passionate.

The brown-red spots dotting the thick paper, though, told a different story. Ryen did not completely know the man. He should remember that.

Ryen slumped on the sofa and unrolled the paper. Inside, a series of drawings told the story of a man who survived death. He didn’t return alone; an army of hungry corpses swept over the land, devouring all they come across.

His fingers trembled, and the paper escaped him, rolling shut. The scroll reminded him of a nightmare he’d had as a child. The dead had caught him and-- The room darkened.

Ryen rose, dropping the scroll. Fire. He needed fire. The sun was setting and the dead needed darkness--

There.

On the table.

Ryen yanked the candle closer and set about lighting it.

Some nights, he could sleep without a single light. Others, he was thankful Silvanus was a fire mage and liked leaving his element burning throughout the villa.

When the fire was lit, Ryen slumped back onto the sofa and crouched close. Light glinted onto the wall opposite him, shining off the torc around his neck.

Ryen raised a hand to his throat and traced a finger around it. It had been his for years, but he still thought of it as his mother’s. In Britannia he was little more than her shadow. According to his uncle, he had her features. Her smile. Her laugh.

His father’s eyes.

Thankfully, his uncle rarely spoke of his father. Ryen knew he’d hated the man, hated him for taking his sister, hated him for siring a half breed on her. To Ryen, his uncle was kind. He could never forget his bloodline, though. None could. If Ryen had stayed in Britannia, he suspected no one would ever have joined hands with him. His father’s blood was tainted. Let it die out.

It was those quiet fears that had inspired Ryen. His father had once been a powerful Roman mage. He’d lost his heart, and later his life, in the northern land, but Ryen thought he must still have friends. Friends who would listen to him and perhaps stop the attacks.

He did have friends, he later learned. Friends who blamed his mother’s people for his father’s death. Friends who would see him as a pretty prize.

As chaotic as his first few weeks in Rome had been, good had come from it. Silvanus had invited him into his home as his guest. He listened to him and stopped the attacks. He invited him to enjoy his library. He trusted Ryen with the objects he would find there.

Ryen’s finger caught in one of the intricate loops in his torc. He gently tugged it free, and then let his hand fall away. His mother had once told him once that the pretty little circles were designed to ward against evil. His father would then joke that it did not seem to be working. She’d smile and say that there was good in him.

The memory drew a smile from Ryen. It’d been nothing more than wordplay between them, and yet he wondered. There had been good in his father. When he’d gone to the far outpost and captured his mother, he had never forced himself on her. Was there good in the Senate? Was there good in Silvanus?

And if there was . . . what had happened to the mage who had owned the scroll previously? Had Sylvain invited them into his home? Sent them to fight in the Coliseum in the Night Games the Senate loved so dearly? Sold them into a whorehouse? Had the man who seemed so keen to protect him from those fates given it to others?

“Sire?”

Ryen looked up. Had Silvanus come in while he was fretting with the fire? No.

A look around the room revealed that it was just him, four walls lined with scrolls, and a servant.

“Sire?” the servant said. He was young, perhaps ten. His short tunic was frayed along the bottom.

“I am not Silvanus.” Ryen rose. Silvanus had left very early that morning, but he should be arriving back soon. When it grew dark, Silvanus said he preferred to be in a place he could trust his back to. “He’ll be here soon. Would you like to sit and wait for him?”

“Thank you, Sire.” The servant knelt and held out a scroll. “I was asked to bring this to you.”

Ryen was about to invite him to sit on one of the sofas when the boy’s words sunk in. Him?

He took the scroll. The Senate’s seal, a dark purple wax with an imprint of the twin founders, held it shut.

“Are you sure--” Ryen stopped. The servants was still kneeling before him, offering his wrist. Blue-violet veins shimmered through his tan skin, promising power.

An ache coiled inside Ryen’s stomach. The boy was silently offering him his blood. Judging from the pale scars marking his flesh, this was not the first time he’d done this.

Ryen gently turned the servant’s wrist around so the veins faced away from him. “Sire?” the servant asked.

“No.” Ryen had wondered if there was good in Silvanus or the Senate. Silvanus he wasn’t certain of, but the Senate? No. Not when they could force this on a child. “Thank you, but no.”

After the servant left, Ryen broke the scroll. The parchment was thick and smelled of honeysuckle. Ryen scanned the sheet.

It was empty.

He frowned. Why would anyone send a blank scroll?

There was a whisper across the paper, and then silver-violet lines shimmered across the page, forming letters. Recognizing his unique bloodline of Roman citizen and noble savage, the Senate formally invited him to . . . To join them.

Ryen returned to the sofa. Him, on the Senate? This had to be some kind of jest. He had come to Rome in hopes that they would cease their encroachment into his country, not join them.

He read the scroll again. Vesuvius’ eruption had depleted the mage Senate’s numbers, so he wasn’t surprised that they were looking for new members.

Why him, though? The polite Senators considered him an outsider; the others saw him as Silvanus’ plaything. From the moment you entered Rome, you were destined to become someone’s pet.

Generous words, coming from people who would butcher entire countries rather than learn how to trade with them. A pity Vesuvius’ destruction had not spread further--

No.

Ryen clenched his eyes shut. He would not wish that terrible death on them. No one deserved that.

“Ryen?” Silvanus said.

Ryen turned. Silvanus stood in the doorway, the dark spirals of his hair caressing his shoulders.

Silvanus approached him. The movement made the ends of his toga sway over his sandaled feet. The fine wool was artfully coiled around him, tucked around his tunic at one end and folded over his arm at the other. He looked at once elegant and at ease.

“Has something happened?” Silvanus asked.

Ryen rose. “I received an invitation to join the Senate.”

“Ah.” A smile snaked across Silvanus’ face. “Then the Senate will have real mages and not sycophants in their order.”

“I am not--”

Sylvain shook his head, making a quick tsking sound. “Your spirit sense is among the strongest I have ever seen. A great spirit master once said that too many mages let the other elements overwhelm them, making them forget their instincts.”

His father had told him that as well.

“Please tell me you will at least consider it,” Silvanus said.

“I will.” With the surprise fading, Ryen had to admit that he wanted this power. It would allow him to change things.

Silvanus stepped up to him.

“I don’t agree with a lot of what the Senate’s done,” Ryen said. He was not certain why the Senate--most likely Silvanus--wanted him there, but he intended to be honest with him.

“I know. And that’s fine.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gentle and intelligent, and not afraid to disagree.” Silvanus slid his fingers through Ryen’s and brought them up to his lips. “The Senate is in need of your type of strength.”

The warmth of his words played across Ryen’s fingers. Not many would view those things as strength.

“What about--”

Sylvain’s lips traced over Ryen’s knuckles. A shiver darted up his arm and down his body.

“Hmm?” Sylvain murmured.

“Neisha. What about her?” Between the two of them, Ryan thought she would make a better Senator.

“She will be following her passion.”

Ah. Her warrior idea.

Good. As much as Neisha wanted others to see her as a cool, efficient killer, Ryen thought she was haunted. When Rome came to her country, they took a part of her soul.

Silvanus’ fingers slid down Ryen’s hand, snaking along his arm, past the elbow, and drawing him close.

“I confess,” Silvanus said. “I’m very selfish. I could have arranged for you to follow her. Instead I want you in the Senate.”

Near him.

“Can you imagine what you and I could accomplish together?” Silvanus asked.

Yes.

And though he knew it would be dangerous, Ryen wanted to be in the Senate. Maybe he could nudge them toward a new understanding. Maybe he could convince them to stop the Night Games, or at least stop using children as living spell components. It would be difficult but--

Silvanus’ lips caressed his.

--it might be worth it.

Cynwolf stared out over the cityscape of Rome. From the villa, the city before him looked like the nightsky. All those fires. It reminded him of Ryen. The light burned fiercer in the dark.

Footsteps murmured behind him.

“I’ve dealt with the emperor’s witch,” Avon said.

Cynwolf smiled. His friend had a gift. Few could compete with his ease in the night.

“Thank you.” Now, with the other mage gone, he was the head of the Senate. Just a few well placed poisons and spells, and Cynwolf would be emperor.

Avon stepped up to the balcony railing beside him. “Have you told your lovers about the Darkness?”

“Lover.”

“She fights her desire.”

Let her fight. In bed, she was an amusement, something to break away some of Ryen’s innocence. As a Senator, Silvanus had found it arousing. As a knight Cynwolf wanted her to focus on her strengths. She was a killer. Let her kill. “Ryen is dangerous,” Avon said.

“Yes.” Many in the Senate thought otherwise. As one dead Senator had recently said in response to Cynwolf’s desire to bring Ryen into the Senate, why not? Caligula made his horse a consul.

“Do you think either will be open to the Darkness?”

“Yes.” Cynwolf thought many people served it, in their own way. Perhaps they were negligent and allowed dark things to happen. Or maybe they aided it or looked the other way to buy themselves security. On the Senate, Cynwolf had seen thousands of little moments that strengthened the Darkness.

“I think once they have a taste of power,” Cynwolf said, “they will want more.”

80 CE

Cynwolf made his way across a sea of masked figures. The velvet warmth of the autumn evening breeze caressed him, whispering a sweet song to him.

This music was subtle. It wove around the people at the festival, lightening their mood, and then fading into the wind.

It was perfect for this night.

Ryen called it Oidhche Shamhna, the night before Samhain. For Neisha it was a night to cast bones into a bonefire and remember her ancestors. For the Senate it was a celebration of the final harvest.

To Cynwolf, it was a private holiday marking the feast of the dead, the night when Necrowolf first rose. In his honor, Cynwolf burned myrrh and nutmeg; one scent to remember the undead knight and the other to celebrate the man’s hungers.

The song faded into the wind. It was a gentle end, and though Cynwolf caught a few conversations around him stumbling for a moment, they soon continued. Rome had been built on strength, and while all too many Senators overlooked the subtle power music offered, Cynwolf made a note of it. Like the Darkness, music touched people. Whether they acknowledged it or not, it did not lessen the effects.

Cynwolf made his way across the room.

The singer, a former mage-slave from the east, stood on the dais at a corner of the room. As Cynwolf approached, she made her way to the edge of the platform. The singer tipped her head forward. The movement made the crushed diamonds across her burgundy mask glitter. The gesture was a custom from her land, signifying that she trusted him by cutting eye contact. It was a very flattering act. Cynwolf smiled and returned the gesture.

“Senator,” she said, brushing her long dark hair back. The movement exposed a hint of shoulder and arm through the top of her burgundy chiton. Diamond dust winked across her exposed flesh.

“That was a beautiful song.”

“You honor me,” she said, softening her voice. “If there’s anything else . . .?” Cynwolf took her hand and helped her off the dais. She was pretty, but he had a lover, the mage Senate, and the Darkness. He didn’t need anything else to distract him.

“Only that you enjoy yourself,” he said. “Thank you.”

A shhing sound snaked through the room. Across the room, people grew silent. Along the balcony lining the room, people stepped up to the railing. On the stairwell, the mages turned toward him.

It was there, standing between pillars of candles, that he found Ryen. Ivy crawled along his green mask. It snaked down, curling around his neck, and then around one arm. Wisps of burgundy hair fell over his eyes, hiding them. He reminded Cynwolf of Bacchus, the human make believe god of debauchery.

If, Cynwolf silently amended, the god foreswore wine, orgies, and gambling. Cynwolf scanned the people before him. They were a mix of Senator and citizen, nobility and commoner. Most were native to this land; a few from other countries.

They were his people. Cynwolf smiled.

“Thank you for joining me tonight,” he said. He did not know the magic to weave his words into the wind, though Neisha had begun teaching him how. It was different than simply talking. One had to breathe out the words while twining magic into them. That wasn’t even taking into account the additional spells to keep the words between himself and the recipient. One day Cynwolf would master this style. For now, he relied on simply raising his voice.

“These past few months have been chaotic,” he said, “and the only constant thing we’ve had through it has been one another. I believe disaster brings out our strength. As the Emperor’s mage, I promise to share my power with you. “Our magic unites us. Together, we will strengthen our world.”

There was a moment of silence, and then applause rippled throughout the room. Cynwolf made his way off the dais. Did many of the people there believe his words were more than just pretty baubles? Probably not. A Senator was a Senator was a Senator.

Over time, they would learn differently of him. He wanted them united. Needed it. There was something in them that was so powerful, so enigmatic, not even the Darkness could fathom it. Affection, friendship, love, Cynwolf knew naught. The Darkness needed it, though. Needed them. It brought out and fed on humanity’s worst. In time, it would be able to be nourished by their best.

Neisha had not known what to expect when Ryen asked to speak with her. Since becoming a Senator, he was often either with Silvanus or hidden away with the scrolls. She worried this might be an attempt at a tryst.

Instead, he led her into his tablinum and to the collection of scrolls scattered across a table.

Ryen gathered a handful of small stones from a shelf and carried them to the table.

“Something has happened to him,” he said.

Neisha was not surprised. “As the Emperor’s witch, the power is bound to occasionally go to his head.”

Ryen frowned.

It was a pretty expression on him, darkening his pale green eyes. By Darshan’s Bones, Neisha did not want to care for him. He was a Senator, he was Silvanus’ lover, and . . .

He was still idealistic. Neisha’s optimism had died long before but she found his endearing.

Ryen opened one of the closest scrolls. “He’s changed,” he said, setting stones along the paper to keep it open. “I think it’s something similar to this.”

Neisha studied the scroll. The thick parchment held a series of drawings. In the first, two people fought. One figure had a hint of curves; the other was shaded in to hide its features. In the next drawing, both lay dead.

Neisha glanced up at Ryen. The sketches were macabre but unimpressive. As a child, she’d heard whispers of this man. He’d served the Darkness. When he failed it, it allowed him to remain in the crypt their enemies had fashioned. There was nothing to fear from him.

“What is this from?” she asked.

“It was in a case from Silvanus’ trip to Egypt, many years ago.”

Meaning his engagement against the land’s mages during Cleopatra’s time. How charming; for all of his idealism, Ryen was still coming to terms with his lover’s past.

Neisha pushed the bothersome thought away. If Ryen ever really looked at Silvanus, she hoped he would return to Britannia.

“The artist was told of these drawings and tried to replicate them.” Ryen traced his fingers over the scroll. “Originally, this is from a hidden cave.”

Neisha followed the path of Ryen’s fingers. After his death, the man rose and attacked people. He ate them, and the ones he didn’t completely devour rose from the dead and joined him--

Ryen’s fingers trembled.

The small shake unsettled the stones, causing the scroll to roll shut.

“I’ve heard of the tale,” Neisha said. “The Darkness’ first knight was stopped.” “Many people died.”

“I see six people on the paper.”

“People still talk about him in the north.”

A pity they did not share those stories with others.

Then again, perhaps not. She’d once heard a Senator speak of her country as weak because the last knight had come from somewhere near it. The civilized Roman world had never known a knight. Only barbarian lands had those.

“Silvanus doesn’t eat people,” Neisha said. She found it odd to be defending him. Between her and Ryen, she would have thought he would be the one to excuse him.

“He also didn’t die when--” Ryen pushed himself away from the table.

Neisha watched him stalk over to a candle and fuss with lighting it. When the small flame sent his shadow trembling against the wall, she asked, “When what, Ryen? Has there been another assassination attempt?”

“No.” Such a soft word. It should not sound so pained. “We should have died before. In Herculaneum.”

Neisha frowned.

She had thought about that over the last few months. The amount of power needed to move across distances was beyond her. She accepted that Silvanus could cast it; afterward the man had been exhausted. It was odd that he’d been able to save them as well, but Neisha . . .

Truth; she did not let herself dwell on it. She felt humbled when she did. She’d come to Rome to kill men like him. She did not know how to care for one.

“He’s powerful,” Neisha said. Silvanus was also ambitious and friendly, but that simply meant he hid his power hunger and manipulation behind charm. She would grant he should be watched, though not to the extant that the figures in the scroll should be.

“Silvanus is a Senator,” she added. “While he has and probably will do things you don’t approve of . . .”

Ryen was turned away from her. Toward the entryway.

Neisha tipped her head toward the opening. A chill wind played with the fabric serving as a door, teasing the dark fabric into a dance.

The breeze snaked into the room, stealing the warmth from her skin.

Neisha shivered. Winter was coming early. She hoped . . .

She had felt that wind before. It had woken her in Herculaneum. That night had been so warm, and for a moment she’d thought the cool touch had been Silvanus’ doing.

Ryen jerked, knocking over the candle. The white column shattered, putting out the flame. Ryen frowned and then knelt to pick up the pieces.

Neisha ran her hands over her bare arms and watched him. The Senator was still unused to calling on servants, just as she was unused to feeling kindly toward the people who’d murdered so many in her land.

Just as she was not used to hearing warnings from someone who had little to no magic.

Neisha knelt beside Ryen and helped him collect the pieces.

“You heard something in the wind?” she asked.

Ryen’s fingers trembled, allowing a piece of candle to escape.

“No.”

“You feel something, though.”

“I don’t know.”

Perhaps not, but something about this bothered him. And while he might never be able to face what Silvanus had done before, he’d still tried to understand what had happened. Silvanus should have died in Herculaneum, just as the man should have died on the scroll.

Silvanus, she reminded herself, did not devour people.

Then again, neither had the Darkness’ second knight.

Cynwolf rose from his settee and scanned the assorted scrolls around his tablinum.

A slow scan of his worktable revealed nothing different than before. Half open scrolls, parchment awaiting his words, and Ryen’s torc. His torc, Cynwolf amended. The gift had been a surprise. The gift was also not what he was looking for.

“Have you seen the Necrowolf scroll?” he asked.

On the other side of the table, Avon set down the knife he’d been sharpening. “No. Would you like me to scry for it?”

“Yes, please.” Although Cynwolf wanted to track it, Avon had had it last, so he would have a stronger tie to it.

Cynwolf returned to his seat.

He had acquired the scroll by accident and now viewed it as something of an heirloom. The story of the first knight had become something of a half forgotten dream to many mages. Cynwolf hoped to duplicate the scroll and raise interest in him.

Officially, he would be doing it to draw attention to the brave mages who fought against him. Roman mages fancied a good, bloody spectacle, though. They might feign interest in those long dead mages, but they would thrill to Necrowolf’s hunts.

Avon took his knife and made two slashes across his thumb.

Cynwolf smiled. While most Roman mages relied on wands, Avon was from the northeast, and in his land the old ways were preferred.

Blood ran down his thumb. It pooled in the mound of his hand, and then two large drops broke away.

Avon blew across his wound, sealing it. On the ground, the drops rose and, in a two-step procession, left the room.

Cynwolf turned back to Avon. At some point, he had to get the man to teach him that spell.

Avon’s eyes closed.

“Upstairs,” he said. “In Ryen’s office. He’s . . .” Avon tipped his head to one side. It was as if he was trying to capture a whisper. Knowing his spell, he probably was.

“They suspect you, Cynwolf.”

No.

A chaos of thought, of emotion, flooded Cynwolf. He had intended to tell them. Soon, once he had drawn them further into Rome’s hierarchy.

Now that they suspected, it pushed things ahead. That did not mean it had to be a terrible thing. He could unveil more of his designs to them and show them how their lives were already woven into the Darkness. Neisha would know that her Keepers would forever be free of the Senate’s machinations. Ryen would get more than a free Britannia. One day, he would have all of Rome.

“Cynwolf.”

Avon’s voice was soft. Apologetic.

“They fear you might be in league with the Darkness because of Vesuvius’ eruption,” he said. “Neisha wants Ryen to take the Necrowolf scroll to her people.”

Darkness. It did not sound like they were enthralled by their newfound power. They had begun this conversation, though. Cynwolf would need to join them.

Avon’s eyes opened. “I’m sorry, my friend. Would you like me to deal with them?”

“No.” Cynwolf rose. If they needed to be dealt with . . .

Chances were, only Neisha would be a problem. Despite Cynwolf, Ryen remained idealistic. He would likely not believe such things about him.

Neisha, though, had once dreamed of murdering him. Her loyalty was hard won and, unlike Avon, easily lost. For Ryen’s sake, he would kill her out of his sight. Cynwolf headed upstairs.

Avon’s blood spots lay on the threshold to Ryen’s study. Cynwolf knelt and wiped them away. Whatever happened, it was between the three of them.

His steps were silent as he walked into the room. It was habit, something he’d learned as an apprentice out on the Egyptian campaign.

Today, he considered breaking it. To warn them, to let them know he was there. No, he decided. He wanted to learn what they planned.

“I’ve called my brother through the wind,” Neisha said. “He’ll meet you in Egypt.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Ryen said. He stood by the west window, and the evening light outside painted him as a bright flare of color. Hair as red as pomegranates, the fruit that cost Persephone her freedom. It was beautiful.

“You were the one who noticed the similarities first,” Neisha said. “We do not have time to argue.”

Ryen? Ryen had noticed--

Darkness.

Neisha approached him, shoving scrolls into a muslin bag. In the dim room, she was a curvy shadow.

“I’ve buried six Senators,” she added in a softer tone. Cynwolf was surprised. It was three more than he’d thought. “I can protect myself. Besides, you can better explain what’s happened than I could.”

“What’s there to explain?” Cynwolf asked.

Neisha and Ryen turned.

“Silvanus.” Color bled away from Ryen’s face. Despite it, his smile was still lovely. “We . . . wanted to surprise you.”

“With?” Cynwolf approached them.

“A celebration.” Neisha handed Ryen the muslin bag and then moved towards him, meeting him halfway. She pressed against him, tracing a finger over the fold of his toga. She started at his shoulder, and then followed it down, across his chest. The faint scent of jasmine wafted up from her hair.

“My people want to thank you for what you’ve done for them,” she said, her voice soft.

Cynwolf imagined they would. Knowing Neisha, it would begin with his death and end with Rome burning.

“Then why aren’t you going?” he asked, tracing a finger down Neisha’s arm. He drew warm magic along her skin and let it seep into her flesh. He had wanted to spare Ryen her death but now, knowing he was the one who began this problem, Cynwolf would make him watch.

“I’m the Senator,” Ryen said. “We thought it would mean more if I went.”

“Ah.” Beneath his touch, Neisha’s skin grew cold.

Her eyes widened, but she stayed close. To move would be to proclaim a problem, and Cynwolf doubted she’d do that until Ryen was gone.

Cynwolf smiled at Ryen. “And if I want you to stay?”

“I’ll stay,” Ryen said.

“Good.” Cynwolf stepped past Neisha and took the muslin bag. “I’ll take care of this.”

Neisha ran a hand over her arm. “I can put it away.”

“No need.” Cynwolf sent a light pulse of magic out, making the air around the bag ripple. There was a hushed, crumbling sound, and then red-orange flames darted across the beige fabric.

“No!”

Ryen grabbed the bag and threw it down. He stomped on the fire. Bits of paper fluttered up.

The scent of burnt flesh crept over Cynwolf.

Frowning, he drew Ryen away from the burning scrolls.

Ryen looked up at him. “They were priceless.”

“They only told one side,” Cynwolf said. “I fear they have given you terrible thoughts.”

Neisha stepped beside Ryen and drew him back. “How much did you hear?” she asked.

Cynwolf was surprised she was willing to give up the pretense. She probably hoped doing so would make Ryen flee. Fool; the man would not go back on his word.

Still, she was being honest. He would answer in kind.

“Enough,” Cynwolf said. “I intend to share Necrowolf’s tale, but the version you’ve read is biased. It was written by people who were afraid. Weak.” Cynwolf approached them. “You’re both strong, though.”

He looked from Ryen to Neisha and back. He could still stop the spell that was killing her. Ryen did not have to see her die.

“Neisha,” Cynwolf said, “you know what it’s like to fight something that’s not so different than you. Ryen, you know what it’s like to be home and still not belong. The Darkness binds us. Without it, we would’ve died.”

Ryen’s eyes clenched shut. Neisha took Ryen’s arm and yanked him back.

Cynwolf frowned. He’d wasted his time on her. He would stop that now.

“My foreknights did not understand this world,” Cynwolf said, turning to Ryen. “They wanted it, but they could never care for it.”

Ryen looked back at Cynwolf. “Can . . . can you?”

“Yes.”

“If you forsake the power--”

Cynwolf laughed. Forsake the Darkness? Without its influence, Cynwolf doubted he would have been any different from the other Senators. Neisha would have died the moment she turned her attention toward him--not necessarily a bad thought--and Ryen, well, he would have bedded him and then sold him to a brothel.

His laughter stumbled, and then died. He did not like thinking of his life without the Darkness.

“Ryen, it’s always been inside of me. It’s what enabled me to keep an open mind. There’s darkness inside all of us, and--”

“There are other things too,” Neisha said. Her hand slipped away from Ryen’s. “Compassion. Friendship. Love.”

“In time, the Darkness will understand those,” Cynwolf said. “Its power will increase and--”

“No.” Ryen drew Neisha back. “The Darkness is a monster. It can’t understand them.”

“It will once it has a soul.” Cynwolf approached him. “I don’t want to destroy you. I will, though.”

Neisha’s lips quirked. “Have you already found something prettier to replace him with, Sil--”

She slumped against Ryen.

“Neisha?” Ryen lowered her to the ground. “Neisha?”

“Run,” she whispered. “Please.”

“It’s not in him,” Cynwolf said as he stepped beside Ryen. He took the man’s arm and drew him up.

“Ryen,” Neisha whispered.

“She’s hurt.”

“I’m aware.”

“You--” Thoughts tumbled behind Ryen’s eyes. Cynwolf wished he could pluck them out and study them one by one.

“What do you want?” Ryen asked.

“Join me.”

“No,” Neisha whispered. Her body jerked.

And then went still.

“Neisha.” Ryen turned.

Cynwolf grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back.

Darkness, Ryen felt so good against him. A curious mix of naiveté and cleverness, vulnerability and strength.

Ryen touched his shoulder.

The touch was light, the faintest caress of fingers. They did not push Cynwolf away.

“I will give you Rome,” Cynwolf whispered. “Brittania will be free. One day, we’ll unite the mages--”

“No.”

Such a soft word.

Cynwolf turned his head, brushing his face against Ryen’s hair. He wished . . . It was past time for such things.

Cynwolf ghosted his fingers over Ryen’s shoulder and chest, drawing out the heat surrounding his heart. He kept his movement slow. Gentle. A painless death for an elegant creature.

Ryen drew back. “Silvanus--”

“Cynwolf.” He followed, placing his hand over Ryen’s heart. He could not say if Ryen had ever really seen him for what he’d been before--Senator, Night Game benefactor, mage raider--but now Ryen would see him. Now, he would know. Ryen’s eyes trembled. In the dim light, the tears made the pale green look bright. Luminance.

The luminance broke, leaving Ryen’s eyes dull. He blinked, and then focused on Cynwolf.

“I love you,” Ryen whispered.

Love?

A small ache gathered in Cynwolf’s throat, capturing his breath.

“I love you too,” Cynwolf said.

“Cyn--”

Ryen slumped against him.

“Ryen?” Had he heard him? “Ryen--”

The warmth faded from his lover’s skin.

A tremor lanced through Cynwolf. Ryen was growing cold. He shouldn’t be. He should be smiling and . . .

No.

Cynwolf gently lowered Ryen to the ground. A pulse of magic told him the heart was still. Another told him he was a minute late to undo his spell.

No. No.

Cynwolf clenched his eyes shut.

He’d always imagined that when Necrowolf killed his lover, he’d felt resentful to be forced into that role, or regretted that the woman would not join him. This, though, felt like a gut wound. He wanted . . .

Cynwolf brushed Ryen’s hair back. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel . . .

If you forsake the power . . .

He could not. Without it, they would have died. Without it, Cynwolf would never have allowed Ryen close.

Without it, Cynwolf not have had a reason to kill him.

A warm breeze crept into the room. It snaked over Cynwolf, gently brushing his hair back.

“Cccynwolf.”

Ryen.

Cynwolf drew him close. Even before he became the fire knight, he was always warm. Past lovers loathed to stay close to him on hot nights. If he held Ryen, would his body heat touch him? Would he still be so cold?

“There’ll be other play thingsss.”

He had not been playing.

Darkness help him, he had not meant--

“Sssomething prettier, and mmmore--”

“Silence!” Cynwolf cradled Ryen to him. “You don’t . . .”

Understand.

The Darkness would never understand.

They were unforgivable words. Cynwolf doubted either of the other knights had ever talked back.

A sigh brushed over him.

“Nnno, my friend. I don’t understand.” Its words were soft, its touch soothing. “Perhapsss when I finally have a sssoul . . .”

Yes.

Cynwolf held Ryen against him. If it took a thousand years, he would help the Darkness capture it.