Empire of Dust

In Macedon, war rises like smoke, forbidden romance blooms and ancient magic tempered with rage threatens to turn an empire to dust

After winning his first battle, Prince Alexander fights to become the ruler his kingdom demands—but the line between leader and tyrant blurs with each new threat.

Meanwhile, Hephaestion, cast aside by Alexander for killing the wrong man, must conceal the devastating secret of a divine prophecy from Katerina even as the two of them are thrust together on a dangerous mission to Egypt.

The warrior, Jacob, determined to forget his first love, vows to eradicate the ancient Blood Magics and believes that royal prisoner Cynane holds the key to Macedon’s undoing.

And in chains, the Persian princess Zofia still longs to find the Spirit Eaters, but first must grapple with the secrets of her handsome—and deadly—captor.

New York Times bestselling author Eleanor Herman entwines the real scandals of history with epic fantasy to reimagine the world’s most brilliant ruler, Alexander the Great, in the second book of the Blood of Gods and Royals series.

Books by Eleanor Herman

available from Harlequin TEEN

Blood of Gods and Royals series

(in reading order)

Voice of Gods (ebook novella)

Legacy of Kings

Empire of Dust

To my stepson Sam Dyment and his bride, Crisy Meschieri Dyment.

May your marriage remain an enchanted adventure forever.

Contents

ACT ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

ACT TWO

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

ACT THREE

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

ACT FOUR

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

ACT FIVE

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Excerpt from Voice of Gods by Eleanor Herman

ACT ONE:

CAPTIVE

From the deepest desires often comes the deadliest hate.

—Socrates

Chapter One

LEAVES RUSTLING. BRANCHES CREAKING.

The tinkle of tiny bells and cymbals creeps toward her on the wind. Olympias—queen of Macedon, mother of Prince Regent Alexander—knows she is close.

She keeps walking through the trees of the sacred trail—where horses are forbidden—even though her legs ache and a dull pain in her lower back throbs from long hours in the saddle. She needs answers.

Finally, she sees the sacred oak in the clearing ahead, a tree that was already ancient when Troy burned. Its weighty lower limbs, thick as a man’s body, rest on the ground, gray and gnarled, before curling up again.

The afternoon air is thick and warm, and a trickle of sweat drips down her neck. Her long, silver-blond hair has come undone, wisps blowing into her face as they did so often when she was young and preferred to wear it loose.

An eternity ago, on just such a summer afternoon full of birdsong and sunshine, she lay with him here, wrapped in his strong arms under these wide, whispering boughs. Then her heart was alive with love, and she truly believed she could feel the presence of the goddess who was said to dwell within the tree. Now her pulse is no more than a beating drum, counting the hours, months, years that have been lost. The emptiness of her life eats at her organs like the arsenic she has feared ever since she became queen. For all know that arsenic is the king of poisons, the poison of kings. And queens.

She feels the unquenchable hunger rising in her blood again, the insistent need for something—anything—to stop the torment. Watching as flames consumed the potter’s house three days ago—hearing the screams of the family as her guards dragged them outside—satisfied her need for action for a few beautiful hours...but then the bright, warm blaze of vengeance quickly turned cold as ashes.

Frustration gnawing at her, she pushes her way into the sanctuary of the branches. The world under the tree is like a spacious villa, with countless rooms on many floors—long-empty—divided by diaphanous curtains of green. Golden light pours through dozens of windowlike partings. She approaches the trunk and runs a hand over the rough edges of the lumpy bark. How many warriors joining hands would it take to surround the trunk? Twelve? Fifteen?

A man’s voice startles her and she inhales sharply. I received your message, my queen.

Lord Bastian steps out from behind the trunk and gives her a mocking bow—not quite low enough and far too fast. She lets herself take in the burning dark eyes and tall form, a bit sorry he isn’t wearing the black leather uniform and horned helmet of an Aesarian Lord, although his mulberry-colored tunic shows off his lean muscles. His dark hair hangs in thick waves to his shoulders.

Olympias fingers the dagger in her cloak pocket and feels the sharpness of its tip. You survived the battle, she says archly. My guards told me that my son performed brilliantly as general.

The scar on Bastian’s cheek twitches a bit, puckering. Yes. It was an impressive performance. Still, I don’t know that Alexander would have won if the girl hadn’t helped him.

The girl.

Olympias should be grateful to the wretch for saving Alexander’s life, but all she can feel is a bright, hard anger pulsing through her veins. My messengers have brought me stories that Katerina used a catapult to shoot amphorae full of scorpions and snakes at your army. That she unleashed the hellion—

Bastian winces and waves a hand to stop her. Speak no more of the battle, he says, taking a step toward her. The Lords have been humiliated. Despite our superior numbers, despite the fact that we are the best fighting force in the world, we were vanquished by a boy leading an untested army—and a girl tossing pots.

He steps even closer, and she can feel his breath on her forehead. Where have you been the past few days? he asks. Our spies say you left the palace before the battle.

Her heart beats faster as he nears. It’s not just that he’s young and handsome and slender while her husband, King Philip, is middle-aged, stocky, and missing an eye. What draws her irresistibly to this Lord is the sense of danger that wafts about him like an Egyptian perfume. Intoxicating.

This man knows no loyalty—he is capable of doing anything, killing anyone. Even her. He’s already tried once.

When her taster had fallen unconscious after sipping the queen’s wine, Olympias learned from her guard that the Aesarian Lord Bastian, a guest at the palace, had been flirting with the serving maid while she was carrying the queen’s tray to the royal rooms. It was not hard to conclude that he had poured poison into the cup while the silly fool was staring love-struck into his dark eyes.

She could have called her guards and had Bastian imprisoned, tortured, and executed—but that would have been the impetuous solution. Olympias has always prided herself on seeing the larger stage and possessing the patience to allow plots to unfold. She suspected the Lord would make a useful tool, and she had been right.

At her request, he had framed her long-lost daughter, Katerina, for his own misdeeds, keeping the queen free from Alexander’s blame when his friend was flung into the dungeons. Bastian had whispered to her the Lords’ plans to break into the palace, so she had had time to hide from the attackers in her hidden altar. Bastian had proven very useful—until the Aesarian Lords left the palace to prepare for battle against Macedon while King Philip was away in Byzantium.

With war declared between Macedon and the Lords, Bastian could obviously no longer serve as her spy in the palace. As easily as he’d become her minion for a brief time, his loyalties shifted.

But they are always shifting, she realizes now. She can see it in his eyes, the way self-interest and opportunity ripple across his vision like waves in a pond. He is more of a threat than ever before. He knows too much about her plots, her fears, and her needs.

She cannot allow him to live.

But she needs one last thing.

What are you hiding? he asks, tracing a finger across her jaw.

All mortals have their weaknesses, she says, refusing to answer his question. That girl—Katerina... The name tastes like acid on her tongue. She happens to be mine. And yours, well... She removes her cloak and unclasps the jeweled brooches at her shoulders, letting her gown slip down slowly until it pools around her ankles. Streaks of sunlight sway through the curtain of leaves and tickle her skin. We all know yours.

A man’s eyes are the best mirror for a woman’s beauty. When she gazes into his, a thrill of satisfaction, of power, moves through her. He closes the distance between them, unable to contain his hands, which weave themselves into her waist-length hair. He grabs on—a bit too hard—and draws her to him, his mouth pressing on hers. For a moment, she wants to be overpowered. Wants to forget.

She kisses him back, tasting the sweetness of his youth, his energy, his belief in his own invulnerability. Olympias was like that once, too. Long ago, when the world shimmered like a gem in the palm of her hand and anything seemed possible. Before the curse that ground the gem into dust.

But now, at least for a while, she can be young and free again as the wind rises around them, and the giant oak whispers restlessly, urging them on.

* * *

Olympias adjusts her gown as Bastian pulls on his boots. The sun is low on the horizon, its rays filtering in through the branches and turning the trunk bright red in patches.

I won’t make it back to the fortress until the day after tomorrow, he says. And you? You, too, have a long ride back to Pella, or are you returning to Erissa? What were soldiers doing there—looking for the girl?

When she doesn’t respond, he picks up his sword belt and buckles it around his slim hips. Why does that girl matter so much? What is she to you?

"She is nothing, Olympias says. But she is the key to freeing someone infinitely more important."

He tilts his head and stares at her. Who can be that important to the queen of Macedon? His eyes narrow. A lover, perhaps? He laughs as she looks quickly away from him. What—you think I don’t know you’re imagining someone else when we’re together? I don’t care. I’m not in love with you. Zeus help the man who is.

Olympias pretends to focus on tying her sandal strap, but she is angry. Not with Bastian, but with herself. Has she gotten so soft that she can’t mask her feelings? Philip never knew. But then, Philip is a fool.

You spoke of freeing him. Is this lover a slave, then? I would like to see the man who has such an effect on you, he says, taking a step toward her. He towers over her, his long shadow swallowing her. More of an effect, even, he says slowly, than me.

A slave? No, she says sharply, standing and slapping the dirt from her robe. I am not afraid of you, she thinks as she flings the cloak over her shoulders, aware of her dagger’s weight in the right pocket. "No man could ever have a hold on me." She’s tired of his arrogance. He speaks to her as if he owns her—and she is no toy.

He grabs her wrist hard and leans in to her, his breath hot on her cheek. A woman, then, he says, his eyes lighting up with sensual amusement.

"A god!" she spits at him, her patience done. She hasn’t spoken the word in years, but it doesn’t matter that he knows because after today he will cease to exist. Bastian thinks he knows what power is—but what he knows is only a poor imitation of true majesty.

It takes Bastian a moment to comprehend what she’s saying, but she can see the instant he understands. His eyes burn, sharp as flints.

Suddenly, his expression softens, and he puts a hand on her arm. In that case, I can’t be jealous of my rival, Olympias, he says, his voice oddly gentle. Indeed, you have my sympathy. It’s ruinous for a mortal to love a god.

She says nothing, though his words unsettle her. She doesn’t want his pity.

The wind moans. All around them, the chimes tied to the branches—offerings to the goddess—clang like harsh laughter, the ribbons dance, the branches pop and wheeze.

He plucks a leaf off her robe. Wouldn’t you rather have a companion of flesh and bone?

Olympias smiles, more to herself than to the scarred Lord. He would never understand the sensation of being next to the burning soul of a being made from the same stuff as the stars, who has wind in his blood, and fire for a heart.

You have been a most amusing companion of flesh and bone, she purrs, placing a small white hand on his chest, feeling the hardness of muscles. She runs her hand down to his abdomen, lingering a moment on his rib cage and feeling the tendons alternate with bone. The best place in which to slide a dagger.

He stops her hand from dipping lower. Let’s toast to that. He pulls a goatskin from his pack, and she observes as he puts it to his lips, drinking deeply. She watches carefully, noting when he swallows. Ah, Chian wine, he says. Even better than the gods’ nectar. He passes the goatskin to her.

It’s strong and sweet, and she feels it warming her chest. She tries to hand the goatskin back to him, but he shoos her hand away.

Have more, he says, studying her intently.

A red-hot spike of fear shoots up her spine. No, she replies, pushing the goatskin away too hard. I don’t...don’t... Her words slur, and her head is suddenly crushed by dizziness.

Poison.

Impossible. She saw him sip it, too...

The wind whips angrily through the tree; the huge boughs seem to rise up like arms and drop down again with a groan as the bells and cymbals jangle. The world reels diagonally, and Olympias drops to the ground, facing the tree trunk. She hears Bastian’s footsteps crunch over the leaves as he walks away. She tries to turn her head to see, but she can’t.

Her blood turns to ice, slowing and hardening in her veins. Her breathing slows, too—she can’t get air. Blackness descends all around her, muffling the swishing leaves, the creaking branches, and the sound of her heartbeat, faltering.

Chapter Two

HEPHAESTION STARES AS the vein on the farmer’s sunburned forehead begins to pulse. It seems he’s not the only one with a headache this morning.

I brought two barrels of olives with me, and I won’t leave until you either pay me for them or give me two barrels of olives back, the farmer insists, crossing his arms.

If he keeps talking, will the vein eventually pop? Heph wonders as the farmer continues his tirade. He stopped listening two peasants back. This task Alexander assigned him—to make sure the peasants returning to their homes after the battle received proper payment for the provisions they provided—is by far the worst punishment the prince could have given him. He is—he used to be—Alexander’s best friend. He should be at the prince’s side, not here in this mess.

None of the peasants can read, and they each claim that the receipts they were given are for a lesser amount than what they brought to the palace. Who’s scamming whom here? The palace officials who wrote the receipts, or the peasants themselves?

This little office of a low-level palace clerk has one window facing the stables, and the smell of manure rises in the humid air. Heph glances down at his desk, covered with lists, receipts, and accounts.

As the farmer drones on, his voice morphs into another voice: Alex’s. The voice that Heph has heard again and again over the past two days, ever since the prince called all surviving soldiers into the main palace courtyard to congratulate them on the casualties they inflicted in the battle with the Aesarian Lords.

Jason, son of Alfio, for killing five Aesarian Lords! He clapped the soldier’s shoulder as the others around cheered. Ander, son of Maarku, for killing three Aesarian Lords! Then he was standing in front of Heph. Hephaestion, son of Hipparchus, he said loudly, for killing at least eleven Aesarian Lords. As cheers went up, Alex added under his breath, And that’s one more than he should have.

Heat rushed to his neck, and Heph dropped his eyes. Then, even though it seemed it couldn’t get any worse, it did. Alex walked over to Kadmus, smiling broadly. Finally, our greatest praise of all for General Kadmus, who estimates he killed fourteen Aesarian Lords, the most of any of us!

Kadmus. He is several years older than Heph and, as a general in King Philip’s army, far more experienced in battle. As Kadmus seems to gain Alex’s trust, Heph can’t help but feel Alex lose just a little more faith in him. Heph’s entire relationship with Alex is built on trust. Without Alex, he has nothing. Is nothing. He is a—

...disgrace to the prince’s name.

Heph’s attention snaps back to the farmer, whose forehead has turned a magnificent shade of puce. What?

You heard me, the farmer says. "A disgrace to the prince’s name. Alexander saved us from the Lords, but you—his ill-bred puppy—can’t even get a man his rightful possessions from the palace cellars! No wonder he put you down here with the manure smell."

The pounding in Heph’s head becomes unbearable. What does it mean that even the peasants in the village know he has fallen out of favor? He has to get out of here before he says anything—does anything—he cannot fix. He pushes back from the desk with such force that the chair clatters to the floor. The farmer jumps back as Heph strides past him and the dozen other grumbling peasants crammed onto benches against the walls waiting in line.

What about my olives? the farmer calls to Heph’s retreating back, but he ignores him. Head throbbing, Heph walks down the marble corridors, past the frescoes and painted statues, toward the residential wing of the palace. He quickens his pace, trying to outrun his anger. But no matter where he goes, he still feels its heat on his neck. It’s not just what the farmer said—it’s the truth of what the farmer said.

Dealing with the refugees should be the work of a midlevel palace bureaucrat, not the prince’s right-hand man and best friend. Or is it now former right-hand man and former best friend? Heph has no idea where he stands anymore.

Before the battle, Alex had given every Macedonian soldier a horn to blow if they spotted the Aesarian High Lord Mordecai, and specific instructions to capture—not kill—him. Heph had found Mordecai on the battlefield. He had lowered his sword and brushed his thumb against the smooth, cool surface of the horn dangling from his belt. He was about to bring the horn to his lips, signaling the other soldiers to help him capture the Lord, but the old man had spoken first. Smiling cruelly, Mordecai mocked him, stirring up all Heph’s old feelings of being an orphaned outlaw who belongs nowhere—least of all at a prince’s side.

His injured pride flamed into rage, and Heph didn’t blow his horn. Instead, he let the red mist engulf him, and when it cleared, the High Lord was a tangle of blood and bone that didn’t even look human.

This wasn’t the first time fury had overtaken him. And the first episode had lost him his home, family, and position. Alex had found him and given Heph his life back.

But how many times can he depend on Alex to rescue him from himself?

He finally reaches his room and enters. It’s small and simply furnished, but for five years it has felt like home. Safe. Until now.

He slams the door behind him, pours water from a pitcher into a basin, and splashes it on his face, hoping it will cool the heat pulsing through his veins. Hoping it will reduce the pressure behind his forehead. But it doesn’t. The anger—and fear—remain.

Before the Battle of Pellan Fields, as they now call it, Heph and Alex had dreams together. They were to go on a quest to the Eastern Mountains of Persia to find the legendary Fountain of Youth. Heph doesn’t really care one way or the other about sipping from the rumored magical waters himself. But Alex has wanted to ever since they found the map in the cave last spring, and that was enough for Heph to prepare for a dangerous, possibly suicidal, mission.

Alex says he wants the waters to heal his weak, scarred leg, but Heph knows that the prince’s need to find the Fountain is deeper than that. He knows Alex feels it is the only way he can prove to King Philip, and to the world, that he is not limited by his weakness, that he can do great deeds like his hero, Achilles. Heph understands all too well the lengths one is willing to go to prove oneself.

He and Alex haven’t discussed the Fountain in many weeks now. Maybe it’s time. Maybe Heph can remind him of everything they had planned together, everything they’ve been through so far.

He kneels on the floor and counts four tiles from the foot of his bed, feeling for their special hiding place. The tile is cracked. He never noticed a crack before. Removing the tile, he carefully lowers his hand into the hole beneath. There’s nothing there.

The map is gone.

His heart sinks as he tries to comprehend this twist. Either Alex has purposefully removed the map without telling him—or someone else has. He sits back on his legs. No one else knew about the map. No one else knew Heph had hidden it under the tile. It could only be Alex who took it. Perhaps Alex is planning to leave for the Fountain of Youth...without Heph.

There’s a soft tap at his door, and a teenage girl slips in. Katerina. I’m looking for Alexander, she says, her long fingers tapping the bejeweled Carian scabbard hanging from her hip. Is he here?

She watches as Heph hastily pushes the tile back in place and stands, smoothing his tangled dark curls and adjusting the silver torque that hangs heavy around his neck. He can’t help but notice how the emerald of her robe brings out the green of her eyes, and the way her golden-brown hair shines as brightly as the polished bronze diadem on her head. Today, it’s clearer than ever before what her lineage is: Katerina, the secret princess of Macedon, daughter of King Philip and Queen Olympias, and Alexander’s own twin sister.

He’s not here, he says, more harshly than he intended.

I see that. Do you know where I might find him? she asks. Standing in his doorway, she looks so much like Heph’s best friend and yet so, so different.

No. I haven’t seen him. In days, he silently adds.

Oh. All right, then, Kat says. Heph expects her to leave, but she lingers in the doorway.

He needs her to go. He needs to get out of the palace. Trying to ignore Kat, he walks over to his weapons hanging on wall hooks and removes his short sword, the best one to carry when on a horse.

I...I wanted to talk to you, too, she finally says. About the battle.

I don’t want to talk about the battle, he says over his shoulder, buckling his sword belt so that it fits snugly around his hips.

I’m not going to let you ignore me, she says stubbornly. He tries not to look at the way the robe clings to her body, which is just inches from him.

Now is not a good time, he says, turning to face her. I’m busy.

Are you avoiding me? she asks, crossing her arms and barring his exit. Have I offended you in some way? Each time I try to ask you what happened on the battlefield, you run away.

He has been avoiding her, but not for the reasons she seems to be thinking. Her smiles chase him during the day and at night, and images of her long legs and firm arms have appeared in more of his dreams than they should. She and her legs are just more complications in his relationship with Alexander. He got into enough trouble when he let Alex’s half sister, Princess Cynane, distract him for a time. He can’t let it happen again.

I can’t remember what happened, Kat continues. One moment, I felt the blade slicing into my side, and I was certain it was all over, that I would never breathe again... And then the next moment... She trails off, and Heph notices a rising pink in her cheeks. What did I do? Why won’t you speak with me? She places her hands on her hips, and he notices their gentle curve.

I’m busy, he says again, pushing himself out of his stupor and walking toward the door. He takes a step to move past her, but she remains firmly planted in front of him. Please stand aside.

She crosses her arms. Make me.

Heph is done with these games. In one motion, he wraps his hands around her small waist.

What are you doing? she says in surprise.

He picks her up and lifts her to the side. But as he sets her down, she stumbles and grabs at the front of his tunic to stop herself from falling backward. With a bang, she hits the wall, pulling him toward her. Only by quickly bracing his hands against the wall on either side of her head is Heph able to stop himself from crashing into her.

Taking deep breaths to steady himself, he inhales Katerina’s sweet scent. It’s not the cloying perfume the other palace women wear, but something fresh and wholly of herself. He looks down and sees that she’s looking up at him from between his arms, her mouth open in surprise, her pink lips tantalizingly close to his.

They stand there staring at each other; the air pulses between them. And suddenly, Heph knows: he’s going to lose control again.

In a different way from the battlefield, but just as forbidden.

He’s going to kiss her.

And either she will be angry and run to tell Alex, or she will like it and...that will be even worse. Because when it comes to killing a man or kissing a girl, Heph is weak. His pride and desire are too strong.

And he’s so tired of fighting his emotions. All he wants to do is surrender. From the way Kat tilts her head, her breath coming fast as she leans in, it seems she wants him to surrender, too. The temptation of someone who wants him, someone who sees the value in him, is too much.

He bends closer to her—

And just then, Alex bursts through the door, closely followed by General Kadmus.

Heph hurls himself away from Kat as Alexander stares at them in bewilderment.

Alex! Kat says a bit too loudly, pushing past Heph. I was just looking for you. Buthos wants to put down a wounded horse even though I explicitly told him that the horse will survive.

Tell Buthos to do as you say, Katerina, Alex says, nodding. If he dismisses you, tell him he is free to come see me, but that he might not like what he hears.

Kat flashes a smile at Alex, then finally leaves Heph’s room, though her fresh scent continues to linger. Alex turns his unsettling eyes—one pale blue, the other dark brown—on Heph. Kadmus, he says, his gaze never leaving Heph, would you oversee the northern wall? Please tell Captain Krisos I shall be there shortly.

Yes, my lord. The general bows, and Heph can’t help but notice the many scars that crisscross his deeply tanned body, physical proof of his courage for all to see. An image flashes in front of him of Alex and Kadmus kicking their horses into a gallop as they ride east, toward Persia and the Fountain of Youth.

Alexander waits until the door shuts behind Kadmus. There’s a crowd of angry farmers saying that you left them with nothing, he says, and Heph can hear the barely controlled irritation in his voice. "Why did you leave your post? Can’t you follow any instructions?"

I needed a break, Heph says, forcing himself to meet Alex’s gaze. At least the moment with Katerina dissolved his earlier anger, draining him, leaving him empty—empty enough not to do something rash in front of Alex. I have no idea who stole the olives and figs, the honey and amphorae.

Alex’s eyes take in the short sword hanging at Heph’s side. And so you decided to go out for a ride and ignore your responsibilities? Can’t I even trust you with the simplest assignments? Is that too much to ask?

Why are you wasting me there when I could be training your men and organizing the city’s defenses? Heph fires back. You yourself said the Aesarian Lords might return with reinforcements. You know I can help you. I’m good at that—not handling whiny farmers!

Alex’s mouth becomes a hard line. You know you’re banned from anything to do with the military until further notice. Kadmus is helping me with the defense.

Give me another chance, Heph demands.

Alex shakes his head. I can’t trust you, Heph. Not in war. You don’t follow orders.

Heph unbuckles his sword belt and places it on the table, feeling as he had the time they were fording a particularly violent river and he fell off his horse. He’d struggled against the heavy armor weighing him down, unable to breathe, until another soldier pulled him out. Everything he has built and dreamed of and hoped for is slipping away from him, and he doesn’t know how to get it back. He takes a deep breath. All right, he says, his voice flat and professional. I’ll return now.

No need, Alex says. I put Ortinos in charge of it. He’s a farmer’s son himself, and I think the farmers will heed him. But you can help Achaus supervise the restoration of the library.

Heph winces. Another administrative role, nearly as insulting as the last. But he nods curtly. Yes, my lord. He exits quickly before he can see Alex’s response to his formality. Heph hasn’t used Alexander’s title since his first days at the palace, and the words burn his throat. He swallows hard.

* * *

The smell of smoke and charred wood still lingers from the Aesarian Lords’ fire, though it was a full week ago, as Heph approaches the blackened façade of the royal library. Only the far west section of the gold marble building collapsed—the secret archives and a section of the main reading room next door. Overseeing the crumbling building is another menial job, well beneath Heph’s rank and skill, but at least with this one, he can be outside, away from the stuffy little office. As in battle, he will be directing men, even if it’s only where to move a ladder.

We have cleared enough debris to make a thorough examination of the foundations, Achaus, the royal architect, says, wiping sweat and ashes from his bald, domelike head with a strip of linen cloth.

Good, Heph says. There’s no point in repairing the upper levels if the entire structure is going to collapse. Would you show me the most damaged areas?

Achaus nods and hands Heph a cloth, which he immediately ties around his nose and mouth. The architect leads him to the far end of the building where they descend a small winding staircase into darkness, coolness, and ashes. The air, still heavy with smoke, stings Heph’s eyes. He holds his torch high. Where are the weight-bearing walls? he asks, voice muffled.

This is one, the architect says, striding down the corridor and pointing with his torch. Some of the blocks are scorched but... The man continues to talk, but something itches Heph’s nose, and he stops listening. There’s a smell, something that lurks under the scent of smoke, soot, and charred wood. Heph pulls the cloth off his face.

What is it?

A moment, Heph says and takes a deep breath. The smell is still there. It reminds him of the time he accompanied King Philip and Alex on a mission to ferret out cattle raiders in the hills and they came across the decayed bodies of their advance team, swarming with flies.

Achaus takes off his own cloth and sniffs the air. They walk down the hallway, looking right and left, carefully studying the walls by the light of their torches. He and Achaus enter a large room directly under the main reading room, shafts of daylight pouring through holes in the half-burnt floor of the devastated room above. The smell seems to be stronger in here, but all he sees is a jumble of old desks and bookshelves.

Where is it coming from? he asks, stopping before a wall decorated with patterns of cemented-on scallop shells.

I think it’s coming from behind this wall, Achaus says. There’s a secret chamber built here.

Heph nods. Everyone knows that Philip has a rabbit’s warren of hidden rooms and passageways throughout the palace. Years ago, he and Alex found several during their explorations. The architect twists a large scallop shell as if it were a door handle. A small door, cleverly concealed in the decoration, pops open.

The smell that escapes hits Heph with the force of a mace, knocking him back as he retches. It’s as if a living thing with a thousand legs crawled up his nostrils and lodged itself inside him. Covering his nose and mouth with the cloth, he stoops to enter the small, windowless room.

On the floor is a decomposing body.

Heph lowers himself on one knee and holds the torch close to what had been the face. There, underneath a coating of soot, is Leonidas, the palace librarian. Heph’s stomach lurches and bitter bile rises in his throat.