Empire of Dust Read Free

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.
    â€œWhat 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