Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [16]
Only a fool would discount Kostimon. Even old and failing, the emperor was not yet defeated. He could still call on other parts of his empire to rally. He had men who would hold to their oaths of allegiance. He had resources beyond those of his enemies.
But if he had been broken?
Caelan thought of the confused old man arguing over scroll cases instead of plotting strategy. He thought of the coward who had believed a general’s lies to abandon helpless women and servants in the palace. He thought of the fool who had refused to pay heed to warnings.
Now, driven from his own palace, with the very seat of his power wrested from him, a refugee forced to run for his life, where would Kostimon go? Who would support him? Could he rejoin the main forces of his army? Could he drive the Madruns from his borders? Could he recover from this coup? Could he summon the wits and the strength to lead the men still loyal to him?
The man was ancient, at the end of his time. Even if he drove his enemies back, he could not beat his own fate. Age was finally conquering him, a man who had not surrendered to mortality for nearly a millennium.
How long did the old man have?
His threads of life were thin and weak. He might have days. He might have hours.
And when he died, what then?
Caelan’s eyes narrowed. What would it be like to seize power in Kostimon’s stead?
What would it be like to ride at the head of the imperial army, to hear the roaring shouts of acclaim? What would it be like to have absolute command over the lives of everyone? To have wealth, glory, and possessions?
What would it be like to travel from one end of the vast empire to the other, ruler of every scrap of earth beneath one’s boot soles? What would it be like to change laws, to effect reforms, to free slaves, to abolish slavery altogether? He could drive out the evil Vindicants, close temples, put an end to forbidden rites and practices.
A surge of confidence and ambition swept through him before he tried to thrust his thoughts aside. He was a fool to think such things. Yet he felt ambition burning bright inside him. Prince Tirhin had no more right to rule than any other man. There had been no prophecy cast to indicate a successor. The future of the empire lay open like an arena, with no rules, ready to be taken by the best and strongest.
I am that man.
But was he? Caelan frowned at himself in self-ridicule. He was a former slave, an ex-gladiator, a provincial nobody from nowhere.
But Kostimon had been a nobody from nowhere, Caelan reminded himself. No one could remember where Kostimon had come from originally. What clan? What tribe? What region of the empire? The scrolls of history had been rewritten many times, whenever Kostimon wanted to reinvent his past. A strong man could take the reins of power, if he dared.
A sharp pain flared in Caelan’s chest without warning, making him gasp and double over. His fingers slackened on the bridle, and Elandra’s horse pulled free and trotted on without him.
Alarmed by the thought of becoming separated from her in the darkness, he called, “Elandra, wait—”
The pain hit him again, and he could not finish his sentence. Gritting his teeth, he staggered forward a step, then sank to his knees. He had to call out to her, had to stop her, had to stay with her. But the pain was too great. It consumed him, and he had not even the breath to cry out.
For a moment he thought he had been wounded by some mysterious force coming at him from the darkness. But his groping fingers found no cuts, no blood. Nothing tangible had attacked him.
Gasping through another burst of pain, Caelan fought to hold himself upright. He would not fall, he told himself grimly, struggling to hang on. He would not die here