The Lesser Devil (The Sun Eater, #1.5)

by Christopher Ruocchio

Even after thirty years, he could still feel Hadrian in the old place; his brother who was gone, fled to the edge of known space. Maybe even kidnapped. No one really knew. No one had heard from Hadrian in over thirty standard years. Crispin hoped he was all right.

Unthinking, the plebeian touched a strange necklace he wore depicting a man nailed to a cross. His fingers lingered there as he answered, saying, “Because your men are hurt . . . and because if it were us that needed help, seigneur, I hope that you would give it.” As they spoke three men—two peltasts and one of the villagers—struggled to lift Ored into the saddle; no small feat with his missing leg. And in a smaller voice, almost beneath hearing, Jean-Louis added, “And because the Lord God commands His children to help those in need.” God?

Time was always depicted as a young woman running naked with wings on her feet, looking back over her shoulder. She had an old man’s face on the back of her head, and it was that face that looked in the direction she ran—forwards—and the youthful face that looked forever back.

Crispin smiled. He had always been the lesser devil. Always in Hadrian’s shadow, or his father’s. It had taken years, decades, to realize that it was this that had made him angry as a boy. This that had made him . . . whatever he’d been.

“They wanted to venerate the first Emperor. Old King William. So they borrowed from old religions. Your prayers are Christian, your sacrifices are Hindu. Your architecture is Islamic, your icons pagan. Your scripture is plagiarism, and your canon is politics.

Cultures are always built on the bones of the cultures that come before.

If you answer violence with violence, you will inherit violence without end. Whoever slays the killer quickly discovers that killers are avenged sevenfold.”

“You know, I always wanted to be like him. When I was a boy. He was always better than me. A better student, a better fighter, a better everything. He could be an ass . . . ” He laughed a little. “But I loved him—love him, I suppose. I don’t think he’s dead. But it did always seem like I was in his shadow, you know?” “I do,” Laurent said, “but shadows shrink in time.”