She wanted their heads.
Andrus stood. He towered over the two boys.
“It appears that you were not responsible for the bombings on the Royal Mile,” he said.
Paul and Steven exchanged a look. Hope shone briefly in their eyes, but was quickly extinguished by Andrus’s next words.
“However, you are guilty of membership of the Resistance, and of the murder of Illyri.”
“We didn’t murder anyone,” said Paul. “We fought. We’re soldiers.”
“You are terrorists!” said Syrene.
“Quiet!” said Andrus. “All of you.”
He waited until he was sure that he was being heeded before he continued. Where was Meia? he thought. He wanted to consult with her. He had colluded with her to place his daughter and Ani with the Resistance in order to prevent them from being taken offworld. Now he was being forced to punish these two boys for essentially doing his will.
“The sentence for those guilty of Resistance activities is exile to the Punishment Battalions for life,” he said. “Given your age, I commute that sentence to five years.”
Paul and Steven looked shocked. Five years in the Punishment Battalions was still a virtual death sentence. There was a small chance that Paul might survive, if he was strong enough, and lucky, but Steven would not. He was too young. Starvation and brutality would kill him within months.
“No,” said Syl softly. “Not that.”
The sentence she and Ani had avoided had passed to the Kerrs instead. Ani took her hand and squeezed it.
Then Peris stepped forward.
“If I might speak, Lord Andrus.”
Andrus nodded his permission.
“I in no way condone the activities of these two young men,” said Peris. “They are members of the Resistance, and they fought the Illyri at Dundearg. But I believe they were protecting your daughter and the daughter of General Danis, as well as the women and children sheltered in the castle. Marshal Sedulus, in his desire to rescue the Grand Consul, was guilty of using undue force, of the slaughter of human civilians, of endangering the safety of Illyri and human alike, and of introducing hostile life-forms into a protected environment.
“In their position,” Peris concluded, “I might well have fought Marshal Sedulus too.”
“Do you have an alternative proposal for punishment?” asked Andrus, and his voice betrayed his hope that it might be so.
“They are brave, and strong,” said Peris. “They could be useful to the Empire. If you send them to the Punishment Battalions, they will die. But if you place them with the Brigades . . .”
The Brigades were different. This was where the one-in-ten of conscripted human youths were placed, and those who served in them were treated well. They were given proper food, and the best of training. They were soldiers, not prisoners. It was still dangerous, but the survival rates were many times higher than in the Battalions.
“It is not usual,” said Andrus. “It may even be dangerous to place members of the Resistance in the Brigades. They could sow unrest.”
“I will vouch for them,” said Peris. “I will train them myself. And I will personally deal with any attempts to foment rebellion.”
Andrus and Danis could not hide their surprise. What Peris was proposing was that he should leave his comfortable position in the governor’s personal guard and return to the active Military. A place in the guard was a well-earned reward for loyal service. Nobody went from there to the Brigades. The traffic was always in the other direction.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” asked Danis. He and Peris had served together for a long time, and the captain was one of his closest comrades in arms.
“Yes, General,” said Peris. “I am a common soldier, and a soldier’s place is not in fine palaces, but in the field.”
“I object—” began Syrene, but Andrus cut her off.
“Your objection is noted, but the decision is made. The prisoners will join the Brigades, and Captain Peris will take responsibility for them. It is done. Captain, prepare for your departure.”
Peris saluted, and the boys were led away. This time, Paul risked a look back at Syl, and she managed a small smile. He winked at her in return.
There was hope after all, if only a little.
•••
Once they were gone, Danis and his wife asked permission to spend some time alone with their daughter, for she was now the property of the Sisterhood. Their request was granted by Syrene, although she insisted that Corps personnel be positioned outside Danis’s quarters to ensure that no attempt was made to remove Ani from the castle.
“And none of your tricks,” she warned Ani in a whisper as she moved to join her parents. “If you cross me, I’ll destroy your father and mother.”
Ani departed, her head bowed low.
That left only Syl, Andrus, and Syrene.
“May I request the same kindness?” asked Andrus.
“You may,” said Syrene, “although I would like a moment alone with you first.”
Andrus didn’t seem particularly happy about it, but he had little choice in the matter. He asked Syl to step outside, and she did so. She took a seat across from Balen, but she did not speak. She remembered her conversation with Meia and Fremd, and their warning to say nothing of what had occurred during Gradus’s final moments. She had to tell her father something, though. He was a clever, careful man. He would know what to do.
•••
Andrus stood before Syrene. He hated her now, and did nothing to disguise it. He had once viewed her as a potentially dangerous enemy, but one who could be handled and contained. That situation had changed. She had his daughter, and she had Ani. But he would find a way to get them back, even if he had to wage war to do it.
“Say what you have to say,” he told her, “and then leave. I begrudge every moment I spend away from my child.”
“She will be well cared for,” said Syrene. “She will make a fine addition to the Sisterhood.”
Not for long, Andrus thought. I will not lose her to the Marque.
Syrene stepped toward him. She placed a hand on his sleeve.
“What do you want from me?” asked Andrus.
“A kiss,” said Syrene. “A kiss for a grieving widow.”
Andrus laughed.
“I would sooner kiss a serpent,” he said.
The tattoos on Syrene’s face grew more vivid, and Andrus believed that, just for an instant, he saw them move independently, writhing like snakes. He looked into Syrene’s eyes, and the flecks in her irises were like the light from distant dead stars. He tried to pull away from her, but he could not. Her mouth fixed upon his. He felt something probing at his lips, forcing them apart. He thought at first that it was her tongue, but then it began to separate, and there were tendrils in his mouth, probing at his palate and gums, moving inexorably toward his throat. He tried to pull away, but more tendrils were pouring from Syrene’s jaws, wrapping themselves around his head, holding him in place.
Syrene’s back arched. She breathed deeply into him, and his mouth was filled with dust.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
T
he door to the governor’s office opened, and Syrene emerged. She barely looked at Syl as she pulled her veil down, masking her face.
“Go to your father,” she said. “Say your goodbyes, for we leave tonight.”
Syl entered the room. Her father was seated at his desk. He looked dazed, but he smiled as she appeared.
“I have to talk to you,” said Syl. “I have to tell you something important.”
“Syl,” he said. He stood and raised his arms to her. She came to him, and he held her tight.
“Syl,” he repeated. “Everything is going to be fine. You understand that, don’t you?”
She looked up at him. His breath smelled s
picy yet sickly sweet, like the corrupted air in Dundearg as Gradus had begun to change.
And she knew.
“What was it you wanted to tell me?” said Andrus.
Syl began to cry. She tried to stop the tears, but she could not. She wrapped her arms around her father and buried her face in his chest. She cried and cried until she had no more tears left to shed, until her throat was raw and her body ached. She stepped back from him and knew that she would never allow him to hold her like that again.
“Just that I love you,” she said. “And I’ll always love you, no matter what.”
With that she left him, and went to her room to gather her belongings.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
P
aul and Steven were seated side by side in the Military shuttle. Around them were other young men and women, most of them press-ganged into the service of the Illyri. They were as much hostages as recruits, and most looked frightened. There were others, though, who had clearly joined up willingly, anxious to escape their lives on Earth. Those who knew one another laughed and joked, or spoke too loudly about how hard and tough they were in order to impress the rest, but Paul could detect the tension behind their bravado.
Paul and Steven’s mother had visited them earlier that day. Saying goodbye to her had been the hardest thing either of the boys had ever done. Their parting had shaken Steven badly, and he had spoken little since then, retreating into himself. Paul wasn’t much better, but he kept a brave face for Steven’s sake.
At the back of the shuttle sat a transformed Peris. He wore military green, and the return to his old uniform seemed to have changed him. He was no longer the slightly soft-in-the-middle castle guard of old; he had cast off that identity completely. He seemed at once more relaxed yet more threatening, as though this were his true vocation—to train, to fight—and he was comfortable in this skin. He caught Paul watching him, and gave a single swift nod.
Paul looked away. For reasons best known to himself, Peris had signed on to mentor them, and Paul was not sure how he felt about that, or even if he could entirely trust the tough soldier. His instinct said yes, but the Resistance fighter in him said no. There would come a time when he might have to turn against Peris, for Paul was intent upon returning to Earth, his Earth, and freeing it from the Illyri.
The Illyri, and the Others. The true aliens.
He thought of Syl. His fingers tensed against the armrests of his chair. This parting was only temporary. He would not relinquish her to the Sisterhood. They were meant to be together.
Steven startled him from his thoughts by speaking.
“What’s going to happen to us, Paul?” he asked. His voice was very soft, and very frail.
“We’re going to become soldiers,” whispered Paul. “We’re going to learn weapons, and tactics, and the art of war.”
“And then?”
“We’re going to take what we’ve learned and use it to fight the Illyri,” he said. “We’re going to fight, and we’re going to win. . . .”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
I
n a darkened cellar in Glasgow, far from prying eyes, Meia sat before a mirror and prayed. She could no longer be who she was, not if she was to aid Syl and Ani and discover the truth about the Others. She had injected herself with anesthetic, but what was to come would still be immensely painful, both physically and psychologically. She tried to tell herself that it was not important, that what mattered was what lay within her.
What mattered was her soul.
She took the scalpel from the tray, placed its blade beside her right eye, and slowly began to cut off her face.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
T
he Sisterhood’s shuttle passed through Earth’s atmosphere with a shudder and entered the vastness of space. Syl and Ani stared at the lights of the stars and the lights among the stars, watching as one speck grew bigger and bigger until the lineaments and dimensions of the great ship were revealed. It was the Balaron, newly arrived through the wormhole, now waiting to take them to the Marque.
Syl and Ani wore the yellow robes of novices. All their carefully assembled possessions had been taken from them on Syrene’s orders, and they were certain that they would never see them again. Syl had managed to find a moment to whisper to Ani of her suspicions about her father, although Ani seemed to have no such fears about Danis. She had told him nothing, though, just as they had agreed.
The horrors of the day of departure had produced only one bright spark of goodness, one reason for them not to feel entirely alone: Althea had returned, and just as Peris had offered to take Paul and Steven under his wing, so too Althea had announced that wherever Syl went, she would go too. Syrene did not object. Why would she object to Syl’s pathetic, needy nursemaid coming along? Anyway, it was not unusual for the wealthier novices to bring a handmaiden with them to the Marque, and it often made the transition to the life of the Sisterhood less traumatic for all concerned. But Syl had found one more use for Althea on Earth before they left, for Ani had told her all about Althea’s part in her escape from the castle.
“Can you get a message to the Resistance?” Syl had asked, as Althea helped her to pack.
“Yes,” Althea whispered, “if you give it to me now.”
“Tell them to contact Meia,” said Syl. “Tell her not to trust my father.”
And Althea, reluctantly, had passed on the message, even if she did not understand the reason for it.
Now she leaned across the aisle, and together she, Syl, and Ani took in the immensity of the Balaron.
Syrene sat at the front of the shuttle, her widow’s clothes already replaced by the red robes of the Sisterhood. The Archmage had not moved or spoken during the voyage. Ani risked a peek at her, and whispered to the others that Syrene’s pupils were constricted, her irises blank. She was meditating, although she herself would have called it “communing.”
Meditate all you like, thought Syl. You think you’ve won, but this is simply the first battle. Just as an infection has spread through the Illyri, just as an unknown threat has anchored itself to the collective spine of my race, so too the Sisterhood is about to be infected by a secret enemy.
And I am that enemy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The authors would like to thank Emily Bestler, Judith Curr, Megan Reid, David Brown, and the staff at Emily Bestler Books/Atria Books; Jane Morpeth, Frankie Gray, Samantha Eades, and all at Headline; our agent, Darley Anderson, and his team, particularly Jill Bentley; and Clair Lamb and Madeira James.
Physics of the Future by Michio Kaku (Doubleday, 2011) and The Singularity Is Near by Ray Kurzweil (Viking Penguin, 2006) were among the books that proved particularly useful and thought-provoking during the research and writing of this novel.
And special thanks to Cameron and Alistair for their comments, and their patience.
Photo Credit: Ivan Gimenez Costa
John Connolly is the author of The Wrath of Angels, The Burning Soul, The Book of Lost Things, and Bad Men, among many others. He is a regular contributor to The Irish Times and lives in Dublin, Ireland. For more information, see his website at JohnConnollyBooks.com, or follow him on Twitter @JConnollyBooks.
Photograph by Cameron Ridyard
Jennifer Ridyard was born in England and grew up in South Africa, where she worked as a journalist for many years. Conquest is her first novel. John and Jennifer live in Dublin.
For more information on John and Jennifer, visit them on Twitter @JConnollyBooks and @JennieRidyard, or at chroniclesoftheinvaders.com
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
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authors.simonandschuster.com/John-Connolly
authors.simonandschuster.com/Jennifer-Ridyard
THE CHARLIE PARKER STORIES
Every Dead Thing
Dark Hollow
The Killing
Kind
The White Road
The Reflecting Eye (Novella in the Nocturnes Collection)
The Black Angel
The Unquiet
The Reapers
The Lovers
The Whisperers
The Burning Soul
The Wrath of Angels
OTHER WORKS
Bad Men
Nocturnes
The Book of Lost Things
The Wanderer in Unknown Realms (Ebook Novella)
THE SAMUEL JOHNSON STORIES (FOR YOUNG ADULTS)
The Gates
The Infernals
The Creeps
NONFICTION (as editor)
Books to Die For: The World’s Greatest Mystery Writers on The World’s Greatest Mystery Novels (with Declan Burke)
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.