Ashes of Man (Sun Eater, #5)

by Christopher Ruocchio

“The world’s changed,” I allowed, and glanced back to

“But men have not. Nor will.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “We keep making the same choices. The same mistakes. So the same wisdom will ever serve us.”

I looked on Caesar in amazement, not daring to speak. It was the man himself who spoke. Not the crown. Not the throne. No royal we, only the honest I—so much smaller, so much greater. Half-choked, I stammered, “They were your servants, Radiant Majesty.”

“Angels are only demons that kept their oaths . . . and still serve good and truth.”

Whatever you may think of me, know this: seldom has man known a ruler like William Caesar. They say it was in me that the likeness and power of the God Emperor returned. There are those who write or whisper now that I was the conclusion of the High College’s dream, the culmination of all their careful breeding, their delicate gene sequencing. I tell you I am not. Whatever I am, whatever power I have obtained—however briefly I ruled—I say it was in William the Great, the Sun of the Millennium, that the likeness and greatness of the God Emperor returned.

“Only Tavrosi?” I said. Never had I known such a rage . . . or such a blindness, and never had I cared less. The boy from Emesh stepped forward—the proud knight stepping with him—and struck the Emperor full across the face. The crowd gasped and cursed behind me as Caesar staggered back against the crate upon which his makeshift throne had stood. He managed better than Gilliam had. The rotten priest had fallen. Six Excubitors streamed toward me, highmatter gleaming in their hands. Martian lances lowered, aimed, primed.

The Emperor’s sword—which I had so little used—thrummed to life in my hand, and I thrust its point at the first of his Excubitors. “Try it, you bloodless slaves! Try it and by all the gods of Earth, I swear I’ll tear you each apart!” “Stop!” the Emperor exclaimed. “Damn it, Marlowe! Stop! Stand down, all of you!” He clutched his bloody nose, just as Gilliam had done. Gilliam . . . There was no ring to save me this time. No title, no rank, nor any duel to fight. The bell was rung, the die cast. I didn’t even care.