by Jon Sprunk
Horace considered his words. The prince was still glaring at him with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if he was waiting for any excuse to pull it out and chop off Horace's head.
The bastard looks like he might enjoy that.
“Please tell Her Majesty that I am only a shipwright. If there's something special about me, I did not know it before I arrived in your land. And I would happily depart back to my own country if she would permit it.”
He winced inside at the smartness of his last words but clamped his mouth shut before he could retract them. The nobleman raised an eyebrow, but he translated without any trace of ire that Horace could detect. While Horace waited to hear the queen's reply, he glanced around the chamber. The platform and the main exit were surrounded, but he noted several other doors that appeared unguarded, at least from this side. His hands were shackled, but not his legs. If he had to flee, he could try to squeeze through the crowd and get to one of those side exits—
The queen's laughter interrupted his thoughts, the melodic notes forcing him to look up. For a moment, Horace could understand why people might worship her. She was too beautiful to be real. Through her mirth, she talked to Lord Mulcibar and then gestured to Horace.
“The queen,” Mulcibar said with a small smile, “says she will take your request under…ah, advisement. In the meantime, she wishes to further discuss your role in the quelling of the storm. When you say that the power surged—”
A loud voice resounded through the hall. Lord Mulcibar stopped talked and looked back toward the main doors where a group of bald men stood on the threshold. By their body language—straightened shoulders, lifted chins, mouths pinched into firm lines—they appeared like they were about to plunge into battle. The man in front of the group had wide shoulders and a powerful chest contained within a pale gold robe that contrasted with his bronze skin. Vivid red and indigo tattoos covered his scalp. He held a wooden staff topped by a golden orb—a sun, by its look, complete with a corona of sharp rays. The ornate headpiece reminded Horace of the scepter held by the Archpriest at St. Ephrates’ Basilica when he blessed the crusaders before they boarded the ships—the golden suns were almost exactly the same.
The men standing behind him were clad in deep-red robes like those Horace had seen elsewhere in the city. Then it struck him. They were priests. Horace looked to Nasir with his bald, tattooed head and realized he was a priest, too. He'd thought the man was just a translator.
And they were taking me to his temple for an “interrogation.”
Horace surveyed the party of new arrivals with a fresh perspective. The hall was quiet as they approached the throne. The robust priest in front stopped just a few feet from the bottom step and rapped the butt of his staff on the floor. The queen's face had lost its earlier animation, becoming as still as the marble statues lining the walls. While her gaze rested on the priests, she spoke to Lord Mulcibar. The nobleman bowed and turned, limping from the hall. The guards closed in around Horace and indicated he should follow. He did so. Looking over his shoulder, he watched as the tattooed man addressed the queen while she sat rigid on her throne like she was confronting a snake.
“What's happened?” he asked.
Lord Mulcibar remained silent as they left the hall. The huge doors closed behind them with a heavy thump, and the nobleman started walking down the corridor leading away from the grand hall. Horace made to follow, but the soldiers surrounded him, cutting off his avenues of escape. With their spears, they gestured toward a branching passage.
Horace called after the nobleman. “My lord?”
But Mulcibar kept walking, leaving him alone with the soldiers.
The zoana coursed through her blood, hot and raw. Her connection to the Imuvar dominion pulsed within her breast like a cobra ready to strike. Byleth pictured the envoy's bald head exploding in a mess of red and gray all over the pristine floor and almost laughed in spite of herself.
“…sent here at the behest of His Grand Holiness, the Primarch, to discuss this matter in person, Your Majesty,” Rimesh said.
The light gleamed off the priest's forehead in a most annoying way when he spoke, or perhaps it was his tone, which was a bothersome cross between a lecturing pedant and a true zealot.
She wanted this meeting over as quickly as possible, but she would not give this envoy the satisfaction of knowing how much he irritated her. She would have preferred to continue her audience with the foreign crusader, who was nothing like she had imagined. He was tall and rugged in an exotic way. And bold, as well. The way he looked at her bordered on insolence. “Menarch Rimesh, I do not concern myself with the intricacies of the city treasury. If there is a discrepancy in the latest tribute payment to the capital, I would advise you to consult with the royal treasury. But I will remind you that Erugash shoulders the burden of defending the empire against the western invaders while suffering under this blood debt—”
“This ‘blood debt,’ as you call it,” he said, his voice becoming deeper and louder, “was the price you agreed upon when your father died on the fields beneath these storied walls and the armies of ten great cities were at your gates.”
Byleth had been just a girl when the Sun Temple defeated the other cults of the empire in the years-long struggle that came to be known as the Godswar. In the aftermath, her father had refused to bow to the new order and had raised his banners in opposition to the idea that a single priesthood should govern the spiritual lives of all Akeshians. It had ended in tragedy and would have spelled the end of her house if she hadn't hammered out a peace agreement that allowed her to inherit her father's tarnished throne, at least in title. Now the Sun Temple ruled Erugash in everything but name while she sat in state within the palace, a toy queen presiding over a neutered court. She had learned to endure in the face of these hardships, for she believed that someday she would be free of the scheming priests, free to rule her city in truth.
“Nine,” she said.
“Pardon, Majesty?”
Byleth cleared her throat. “The armies of nine cities were camped outside our gates, Menarch. The army of Erugash, the tenth city, was manning those walls.”
“As I recall, Majesty, the army of Erugash lay scattered across the black earth, returning their life blood to the soil.”
Hunzuu, First Sword of her Queen's Guard, took a step toward the delegation with murder written across his face, but he halted when she shook her head. Then she smiled down at the envoy. If things were different and she wasn't a virtual prisoner inside her own palace, she would show this priest what it meant to insult a queen of Erugash to her face.
“But that is immaterial,” Rimesh continued, folding his hands across his flat stomach. He was in surprisingly good physical shape for a temple official, standing as tall as her brother Zazil and almost as broad across the shoulders. “You signed the armistice, Majesty, and so the empire demands that you abide by its strictures. Eight hundred mana of gold are past due. The amount must be delivered to Ceasa by the next moon.”
“Or what?”
The statement garnered sharp looks from the menarch's entourage and a few whispers from her court. Byleth snapped her teeth shut, half-wishing she had held her tongue.
Rimesh reached inside his left sleeve. Xantu and Gilgar descended a step, their zoana peaking so hot Byleth could almost see it shimmering around them. Yet the priest merely drew out a thin scroll, tied with a gold ribbon. “The temple has heard disturbing rumors, Majesty. The local priests say—”
“Yes. What do they say?” Byleth struggled to keep from grinding her teeth. The temples and their priests had long been an irritation, since even before her father's time as king. Always grasping for more power, always presuming to judge. Astaptah was right in his mistrust of them. How she wished she could eradicate the Sun Cult from her city once and all.
Rimesh made a show of looking around the hall. “They say they are no longer welcome in Your Majesty's court.”
She gestured to the doors
. “Walk through the palace, Menarch. You won't be able to go a dozen paces without running into a soothsayer or astrologer. For five pieces of silver they will tell your future.”
“They say that you dismissed your temple-appointed vizier without sanction.”
“I need no sanction within the boundaries of this city, Menarch. The armistice be damned. I choose my own counsel.”
“There are other whispers, too. More dire rumors about secret meetings and forbidden places within the palace.”
“You speak much, priest, but say little. What are these rumors? Reveal them to the court, I bid you.”
“Very well. To put a blunt point on it, there is a suspicion that a prohibited cult operates somewhere inside Erugash.”
A chill ran through Byleth, but she kept her face perfectly calm. “A prohibited cult? Your temple makes so many decrees, night and day, it's a wonder if anyone could keep up with today's dogma. I daresay there are heretics in every city in the empire.”
“I am not speaking of an ignorant layman mixing the wrong kind of wine with his sheep's blood.”
The priest was flushed, and a thin line of sweat had formed above his upper lip. Byleth leaned forward. She enjoyed making him wriggle. “Go on.”
“I am not—” Rimesh cleared his throat again. “—prepared to make accusations at this time. I have been sent to observe and report back to the Primarch, and so I shall.”
She said nothing, staring at him as the silence stretched out over several heartbeats. “Very well.”
She thought that would be the end of it, but the priest did not move from his spot. “Was there something else?” she asked.
“Yes. The subject of your betrothal.”
Byleth looked across to the chair beside her throne where Prince Tatannu lounged against the padded rest, one boot propped on the cushion and the other splayed beneath him in repose as he sipped from a golden cup. The prince of Nisus, her betrothed. His house claimed to be descended from Amur, the Sun God, but she didn't sense much divinity in him. Saddling her with a fiancé was merely the latest in a string of indignities perpetrated by the cult. She forced herself to smile. “What of it?”
“The temple is concerned. You have postponed the date of your nuptials four times, Majesty.” The priest tapped the scroll against the palm of his hand as if it were a stick with which he intended to chastise her. “The last time, just a month ago, with no new date set.”
“That's correct, Menarch. With our people suffering so horribly and the threat of invasion from the west, we cannot possibly consider marrying at this time. Perhaps next spring, when the lotus are in bloom.”
“On the contrary, a royal wedding might be the thing to lift the city's spirits.”
“That's what I told her,” Prince Tatannu said, sitting up and dribbling wine down his tunic. “Why the wait? I am eager to sample the pleasures of our marital bliss.”
Byleth dug her fingernails into the armrests as her zoana bubbled close to the surface. “I have consulted the oracles, and they say that the time is not auspicious.”
“Allow me,” Rimesh said, “to perform a new augury for you. The planets will be in perfect harmony this evening.”
“No.” She forced herself to add, “Thank you. We will not trouble the gods over such petty problems.”
The priest sighed. It was such a dramatic exhalation, Byleth wondered if he had practiced it beforehand. “In that case, Majesty, I have been instructed to give you this.”
He extended the scroll. A ludicrous gesture, since he stood a dozen paces away from her.
Does he expect me to get up and take it from his oily hand?
“What is it?” she asked.
Rimesh untied the ribbon, letting it fall to the floor in another dramatic flourish, and unrolled the scroll. “This is a petition, signed by every ruler of the nine cities of Akeshia. It states that unless you, Byleth et'Urdrammor,…”
Byleth braced herself as his stentorian voice rang throughout the hall.
“…do wed Prince Tatannu of the House Murannash at the festival of Tammuris before the turning of the new moon, you shall be deposed from the throne of Erugash, and a new ruler for the city shall be chosen by your brethren monarchs.”
Tatannu grunted as if amused by the pronouncement. Whispers arose from the court. Byleth pried her fingers from the throne's arms and clasped both hands in her lap. The rite of Tammuris was less than three weeks away.
Too soon. My plans are not ready yet.
She drew in a deep breath to calm herself. She was angry enough to bring down the entire palace but refused to show it. “That is out of the question.”
Rimesh had the good sense to bow his head, if only for a moment. “You have my abject apologies, Your Majesty. But this petition will be carried out if the terms are not met.”
“You are dismissed, Menarch.”
Byleth waited, but the priests did not move. The red-robed dogs of the temple's Order of the Crimson Flame, she knew, would not budge until their master instructed them to leave, but she was shocked at the menarch's brazenness. To defy her here in her own palace.
“Just one last matter, Majesty.”
Byleth considered the ramifications if she unleashed her own wolf-hounds on these curs. It would be a bloodbath. The temple would call for sanctions against her, but what else could they take? She was already a puppet, and everyone knew it. Her word hardly extended beyond the palace gates. She lifted a finger, pointing to the priest. “Yes?”
“The war, Majesty.”
“I already have a High General, Menarch.” Byleth glanced over at Prince Zazil. Throughout this entire exchange, her younger brother had stood idly by without once coming to her aid. It was so like him to do nothing while she shouldered the burdens of the realm. “But if you would like to apply for the post…”
A few titters raced through the crowd. Byleth smiled to show them she approved of their mocking laughter.
“I wouldn't presume, Majesty.” Rimesh bowed to Prince Zazil, who nodded in reply.
My, aren't they cozy with each other…
“But I bring word from His Imperial Divinity,” the priest continued. “Erugash's new levies have been late in arriving.”
“They are not late, Menarch. They are not coming.”
Rimesh frowned. “But Majesty—”
She stood up. At once, everyone fell to one knee, save for the priests. They stood at ease as if she were nothing more than a commoner.
“Erugash has bled more than her fair share,” she said. “Sending her soldiers to defend the empire's far-flung interests. But now invaders threaten our shores while the heartland grows fat and prosperous. Until the emperor's council sees fit to answer our requests for a suspension of the land tax, Ceasa will receive no more of our fighting men.”
This time, Rimesh did not press her but simply nodded. “I shall inform the capital of your answer, Majesty.”
Byleth's fingernails bit into her palms as she realized the trap she had stepped into. For a moment, she almost allowed herself to lash out.
Yes, you will inform them, won't you, priest. And with glee, no doubt.
“This audience is ended,” she said.
The court nuncio cleared the hall as Byleth strode to the door behind the throne. Xantu and Gilgar accompanied her into the corridors beyond. Sometimes she would banter with the brothers as they walked. She had known them for most of her life. They had played together as children, their families sharing a close bond that she had inherited from her father. But today she stalked the passages in silence, walking so fast they had to hurry to keep up. Ascending a flight of spiral stairs leading to the private entrance to her chambers, she passed inside and went to her dressing chamber while the soldiers took posts outside. Her slaves hopped up from where they had been lounging and rushed over.
“Majesty!” Aisa said. “We didn't expect you to return so soon.”
Byleth did not allow her displeasure from the audience to appear on her face
. “Hetta, instruct the First Sword to summon Lord Astaptah at once. Alyra, I've had enough of bright colors today. Bring me the magenta gown.”
While her slaves hurried to obey, Byleth sat at her dressing table. She hated the image glaring back at her from the huge mirror. She hated her tiny nose with its upturned tip. She hated the ugly splotches that formed under her eyes when she got angry. She hated her hair—so drab and dark. “I wish I had your golden hair, Alyra. It's so striking.”
“Your hair is the envy of every lady in Erugash, Majesty,” Alyra said as she laid out the gown.
As Byleth tried to imagine herself with blonde hair, she replayed the conversation with Rimesh in her head. Unless she devised a way out of their trap, she would remain at the mercy of the Sun Cult for the rest of her life, however long or short that was. She had few allies, even within the city. The aristocracy of Erugash consisted of over a dozen noble houses, of which her family was one of the oldest. In her father's time, they had all flocked to the court to seek royal favor, but in the years following his death the Sun Cult had wooed many zoanii away from her with promises of power and influence. If she defied the cult, how many of those houses would support her? Some families owed her favors, and Lord Mulcibar might be able to sway a couple others to her cause, but she had to tread carefully.
When she finished dressing, Byleth stepped out into the suite's central chamber. A lean man stood near the outer door. Gazing down at the floor with his hands clasped behind his back, he gave the initial impression of a scholar. Perhaps he was studying the plush white carpet under his feet. Sometimes Byleth forgot the riches that surrounded her—the marble stonework, the gold and silver decorations, the jeweled mosaics on the walls, the hardwood furniture imported from distant Oshan. Situated at the top of the palace, which had been begun by her father early in his reign and finished by her just five years ago, her chambers were literally the pinnacle of the civilized world. The windows of the western exposure gave way to a terraced veranda that provided an unparalleled view of her city. At night, the lights below glowed like a carpet of fireflies beneath her.
