by Jon Sprunk
Horace gasped as a blinding light exploded in front of his eyes. Searing agony ripped through his body like he had been dropped into a vat of acid. His muscles writhed, contracting so hard he thought his sinews were going to pull free from his bones. His lungs froze in mid-breath. Yet, through it all, the alien energy continued to pour out of him. Or into him. He didn't understand what was happening. He wanted it all…to…just…
Stop!
Thunder boomed in his ears. The wind disappeared. The wagon settled down, and the whipping sand wafted back to the ground. Horace looked around. The sky was clear once more. The sudden stillness was deafening.
Lord Isiratu was on his knees, his head bowed as if suffering under a gigantic weight. Streaks of blood ran down his face. Ubar stooped beside his father, blood staining several spots on his robe. The soldiers left the cover of the wagon to surround the nobles, helping Isiratu to his feet. Lord Ubar assisted, too, but his gaze was focused on the slave line, staring right at Horace. As the soldiers helped their masters back to the wagon, Horace sat down on the ground. The other slaves backed away from him as far as the chain allowed—even Gaz. They whispered to each other while watching him with wide eyes. Only Jirom seemed unconcerned; he had turned around to face the wagon.
Horace looked down at his hands. The vibrations were gone, the surge of energy departed, but he couldn't forget what it had felt like coursing through him. He'd never experienced anything like it before. He had stopped the storm with nothing more than his mind. It was insane, and yet he had no other explanation.
Horace's stomach rolled over as he saw Lord Ubar approaching with four soldiers. Their eyes were fixed on him, and there was no place to hide. He started to get up, but the soldiers raced ahead, drawing swords as they formed a line between him and the young noble.
Ubar pushed past his guardians. Trickles of blood ran down the front of his robe, but he didn't seem hurt beyond that. The young noble pointed to the now-clear sky and said, “Minat in'azama qatiya? Kima nepalu simmu im?”
“The storm,” Jirom said. “He wants to know what you did.”
Horace wanted to shout that he didn't know, but he was too tired to fight. He held out his hands, palms up. They looked normal, showing no sign of the power that had flowed through them only minutes ago. Ubar nodded, and then he motioned to one of the soldiers, who put away his weapon and brought out a set of long iron tongs and a hammer. Horace flinched when the soldiers came over to him but held still as he understood what they wanted. In a few moments, his collar came off.
Horace felt his bare neck as the soldiers stepped back. He was free again. Or was he?
Ubar spoke a few more words and gestured to the front of the procession. Then he and two of his bodyguards went back to the wagon. The other two remained with Horace. They put their swords away but otherwise gave every indication of watching over him.
“What happened?” Horace asked.
The chain jangled as Jirom stood up. “You are a free man.”
“But why? What did he say?”
The other slaves were getting up, too, but they kept their distance.
Jirom shrugged his broad shoulders. “They don't know what to do with you. You're a slave and a foreigner, but you also have zoana, so you can't be a slave. He wants you to remain with the caravan until Lord Isiratu makes a judgment.”
“What's a zoana? What kind of judgment?”
But the guards had returned, shouting and plying their whips, and the slaves started moving after the wagon again. Jirom gave him a resigned look before following the coffle.
Horace watched the caravan go, not sure what he was supposed to do. If he was truly free, he could leave. Yet he doubted the soldiers were going to let him walk away, free or not, especially with this talk of zoana, whatever it was.
With an eye on the horizon, he set off after the procession.
“Zoana is black magic.”
Jirom sat across from Horace, chewing on a crust of black bread. The caravan had stopped at a small oasis of palm trees around a burbling spring. The other slaves refused to talk to him. Even Gaz wouldn't look him in the eye.
Horace squinted at Jirom. “What?”
A smile crossed the big man's chapped lips. “The power that our masters wield. They call it zoana.”
“And they think that I…”
The idea was so far beyond Horace's existence that he had a hard time crediting it. Magic was the stuff of legends about the elder days when terrible monsters supposedly walked the land. No one believed in such things anymore. Yet these people did, and they believed he possessed it. But he didn't feel any different than before.
No, that's not true. There's something different about me. Something changed during that sandstorm.
Horace tried to recall the storm, hoping to figure out what had happened to him, but it was difficult to see the incident in his mind. Instead, bits and pieces flashed before his eyes, which only added to his confusion.
He looked over at the pavilion erected between the tall trees. Lord Isiratu had been transferred from the wagon to the huge tent. “What made those gouges on Isiratu's face? I've seen it happen before.”
“They get those wounds when they use their sorcery,” Jirom replied.
“Who gets them?”
“People like you who wield the zoana. Sorcerers.”
“I'm no god damned magician!”
Jirom leaned close enough that Horace felt his imposing presence. “We all saw what you did. You turned away the storm with your magic. That is why the lords fear you now.”
Horace pondered that for a minute. If they truly feared him, he could use that.
A soldier approached from the direction of the tents. The slaves looked up with apprehension as the trooper stopped in front of Horace and held out a wooden bowl covered with a linen cloth. Horace glanced at Jirom, but the big man sat quietly without giving any clue what this might be. Clearing his throat, Horace took the covered bowl. It was cool, as if it had been kept on ice. As the soldier walked away, Horace pulled away the cloth. Inside were half a dozen small white eggs on a bed of lettuce. His mouth watered at the sight.
Horace showed Jirom. “What's this for?”
“A sign of respect. A gift to honor what you did.”
Horace took an egg and put it in his mouth. The taste and the soft, crumbly texture were delicious. His stomach grumbled for more. He offered the bowl to Jirom, who took an egg and plopped it into his mouth with a smile. He also offered some to Gaz and the other slaves, but they turned away as if afraid to be seen conversing with him. Horace shrugged.
If that's the way you want it.
While he and Jirom shared the meal under the dimming sky, Horace learned how Jirom had served in several armies before he was captured by the Akeshians, and how he'd fought in the arena. Jirom wasn't so forthcoming about the circumstances that had led to him being attached to this lot of slaves, but after the big man went to sleep, Gaz shuffled over to tell Horace that the brand on Jirom's cheek marked him as a murderer. Such men, Gaz warned, couldn't be trusted, and Horace wondered what the small man said about him behind his back.
Horace watched the sky. With his collar off and the temperature starting to drop, he could almost pretend he was back home. The breeze rustling through palm leaves could be the roar of the waves. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure images of his wife and son, but his life with them felt like so long ago, like it belonged to someone else and he was watching from the outside.
Footsteps in the sand brought him back to the real world. Two soldiers came over and motioned for Horace to accompany them. He complied, but slowly, stretching his arms above his head before he followed them. They led him through the camp to a smaller tent staked out beside Lord Isiratu's pavilion. Horace frowned as they indicated he should enter. This tent had been erected for Lord Ubar and was guarded by a cordon of bodyguards. What did the noble's son want with him? Had the judgment been rendered already? Not wanting to be forced, Horace
ducked inside.
Two lamps sat on the tent's floor, which was covered in thick carpet from wall to wall. Stepping on the rugs with his dirty sandals felt felonious, but there was no other option. Horace tried not to track too much sand onto the fine weaves. Lord Ubar sat on a broad cushion. He wore a clean purple coat brocaded with silver thread. His hair had been brushed and oiled. Horace ran a hand across his head and grimaced when his fingers came away covered in a film of sweat and grit.
Nasir sat beside Lord Ubar, wearing a crimson stole over his robe. A pattern of golden sunbursts was stitched into the silk. Ubar gestured to the floor. “Please. Sit.”
He had a thick accent, but Horace could understand him fine.
A slave girl—quite fetching with her black hair held back with jade pins—rushed forward to place a cushion in front of Horace. With a nod to her, he sat down and tried not to notice the cloud of dust that settled around him. “Thank you for the extra food. And for my freedom.”
Nasir translated this to Ubar, who nodded. Horace caught a few of the words that passed between them as Nasir related the young noble's reply. “It is the law that zoanii cannot be enslaved. Please forgive me, Inganaz, but you are an outlander and possibly a spy.”
“Inga—?” Horace glanced at Nasir. “What did he say?”
“Inganaz. It means ‘He who does not bleed.’ I believe it refers to your lack of immaculata after the storm.”
“Yes,” Horace said. “About the immaculata, what are—?”
Lord Ubar resumed talking through the translator. “My father is still recovering from the storm-of-chaos. But when he is well, he will decide your final status. Until then, you will remain free, but under guard.”
Horace didn't like the sound of “final status,” but he didn't have a chance to inquire further as Lord Ubar launched into a flurry of questions. “Who are the most powerful zoanii in your country? Do they all support the invasion of our land? Is the zoana common in your country? Where were you trained?”
Horace held up his hand. “Hold on. I don't understand most of what you just asked me.”
“Please tell us which questions you did not understand.”
“You can start by explaining the zoanii and zoana. One of the slaves said it meant sorcery. Is that what you think I am?”
“Zoanii are the rulers of the empire. Zoana is…the closest word in Arnossi would be ‘magic.’ However, it also has a divine connotation. Zoana comes from the celestial realm where the gods dwell in perfection, and the zoanii are their instruments in this world.”
Horace tried to make sense of the words. “So, are you and Lord Ubar are both zoanii?”
Nasir indicated the noble's son. “His Highness, Lord Ubar, is zoanii like his noble father. I am not. Now, if you please, Lord Ubar has many questions regarding your homeland and its customs. And also about yourself.”
Horace's first instinct was to tell them both to go to hell, but he reminded himself that he was in their power. And, for what it was worth, Ubar had shown him a measure of…well, compassion, if not kindness. “Tell him that I honestly don't know anything about this zoana. Like I told his father, I'm just a simple craftsman. I build and repair ships.”
Nasir took some time relating this to Lord Ubar, and Horace started getting anxious. This was his chance to influence his own destiny. Ubar obviously had his father's ear. If he could convince the son that letting him go was the best option…
He cleared his throat. “May I ask a question, my lords?”
Ubar and Nasir halted their conversation. Ubar nodded. “Yes.”
“The other prisoners say you're taking us to a place called Nisus. Is that right?”
After a short discussion, Nasir answered, “Yes. Lord Isiratu has honored the temple of Amur with a gift.”
Amur must be their pagan sun god.
“And will we—the captives—be killed?”
Nasir's lips turned down in a disdainful frown. “That is the talk of foolish peasants. Most of them will live their remaining years serving in the temple or tending the olive groves.”
That didn't sound so bad, but Horace had noted something. “You say most. But not all? Me, for example. Why send a—” He was going to say a prisoner of war, but changed his mind. “—a foreigner to this temple?”
Nasir closed his mouth. It didn't appear as if he was going to reply. Then Lord Ubar, who had been watching the exchange, interjected. Nasir nodded twice and then said, “Lord Ubar says that is his father's prerogative. Once you landed on his father's domain, you became his property. Yet things may have changed. He asked you here tonight for another purpose.”
“Please,” Ubar said in his own voice. “With all humility, I ask. May I examine you?”
Horace's mouth dried up as those words sank in. Examine him? He didn't think the noble's son had a medical examination in mind. He meant sorcery. Black magic. An image came to mind, of his wife Sari kneeling beside Josef's crib, praying for the Prophet to protect their son from the Evil One and his infernal host of demons. The very idea of submitting to magical “examination” was repugnant, but part of him wanted to know more about what had happened during the storm, and these people were the only ones who might have the answers.
“I suppose that would be—” Horace started to say when the tent flap opened and two soldiers appeared.
They addressed Lord Ubar. Horace heard something about a captive—which he assumed meant him—and Lord Isiratu. Ubar and Nasir put their heads together. Horace leaned forward. “Is something wrong?”
Nasir broke off their conversation with a gesture from Ubar. “You have been summoned by Lord Isiratu. You are to go at once.”
“But what about—?”
The soldiers didn't give him time to protest as they hooked him under the arms and dragged him to his feet. Lord Ubar and Nasir followed them out. Twilight had slipped into night while they were talking. The moon hung low in the eastern sky.
“All right,” Horace said as they pulled him out of the tent. He struggled to walk under his own power. “I said all right!”
The soldiers let him go. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, Horace accompanied them to the pavilion. The door flaps were held open by soldiers wearing deep indigo tabards over fine-mesh chain mail. Horace saw more soldiers in the same livery on the other side of the oasis setting up tents against the cool white of the moonlit dunes. A score of horses were being fed and watered inside a new, roped-off paddock.
Inside the pavilion, Lord Isiratu reclined on a bed of cushions. Both of the nobleman's arms were wrapped in bandages. A long gash, stitched closed, ran from his left temple down to the corner of his mouth. Lord Ubar and Nasir bowed as they entered and took seats to the left of Isiratu. To the noble's right was an old man who sat with a hunch as if his spine couldn't support his slender frame. The stranger wore a long robe of purple so dark it looked almost black. Thick gold bracelets adorned his wrists that, if real, must have weighed half a stone each. His head was shaved bald like Isiratu's.
No cushion was provided for Horace, so he stood while Isiratu talked with the new arrival. Ubar and Nasir sat attentively but said nothing. Purple Robe's voice was deep but breathy, as if he had trouble speaking more than a few words at a time. After several minutes of standing and listening to their jabbering, Horace began to get irritated. He was about to demand that Nasir tell him what was being said when the conversation stopped. The old man stood up with assistance from one of his soldiers. As he turned to the exit, Horace saw a huge scar of twisting brown and gray lines dominating the right side of his face. Horace was so disturbed by the sight he didn't notice the old man's limp until he was out the door.
“Who was that?” Horace couldn't help from asking.
Nasir replied, “That was Lord Mulcibar, High Vizier of Erugash.”
“What is Erugash?”
But Nasir wasn't paying attention. Instead, he watched as Lord Isiratu leaned over to his son and began a long speech punctuated by violen
t hand gestures, most of them directed out the pavilion door. Horace asked what they were saying, but Nasir waved him away like an annoying insect. Eventually Isiratu ended his harangue. Nasir hesitated, a stunned expression on his face. Then he bowed his head. “Lord Isiratu has decided that we shall go to Erugash instead of Nisus.”
Horace could tell that none of the three men were happy about this development. Even Ubar appeared perturbed—a faint sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. “So Erugash is a place?” Horace asked.
Nasir smoothed his silken stole. “Erugash is the city of Queen Byleth. In your society, she would be Lord Isiratu's liege lord.”
“Why the sudden change of plans? Is it because of the new lord? What was his name?”
“Lord Mulcibar,” Nasir said, “shall accompany us on the journey.”
Isiratu clapped, and a pair of soldiers escorted Horace out of the pavilion. As he departed, it occurred to Horace that no one had thanked him for saving their lives.
Oxen bleated as they were fed and watered by sleepy drovers. The sentries on duty stretched and rubbed their eyes while their brethren crawled out of their blankets looking for something to eat. Soon, the smells of beer and cooking wheat cakes floated through the camp.
Horace sat cross-legged on the sand, watching people move around as he broke his fast with water and unleavened bread. The sun climbed a clear azure vault. A faint breeze rustled the sand around him, but otherwise there was no weather to speak of. Not a single cloud to mar the heavens.
Another morning on the march. By evening we'll be ten leagues farther from the coast. Farther from any chance of getting home.
He still hoped to find some way to Etonia, and from there back to Arnos, but that hope grew fainter each day. Part of him was desperate to get back, but another part—the side of him that loved the wild capriciousness of the sea—was intrigued by this new land. He had already seen things beyond his most daring dreams. What else would he discover on this journey?
