by Jon Sprunk
“What are the storms? You call them chaos, but what does that mean?”
The old nobleman tapped the end of his cane on the dusty pavestones. “That is more difficult to answer. All things in the cosmos came from chaos. It is the force of creation, as well as destruction.”
Horace looked down at the scars across his palms. “Each time I've seen one of these chaos storms, I get a peculiar feeling. It's raw and powerful, almost angry. It makes me want to break something. Or worse.”
“Some of our seers claim that the storms are the embodiment of the gods’ wrath, sent down as punishment for our failure to follow their divine ways. Others believe they are a trial to cleanse the empire of weakness and to fortify us for some great destiny.”
“You don't sound like you believe either of those theories.”
“My beliefs are a discussion for another day. I don't know why you feel such things, Horace, but I've been thinking about your lack of immaculata. Perhaps if I could perform some tests…”
Horace shifted away. “I don't like the sound of that.”
“Forgive me. I was a student of mathematics and science when I was a young man, and some traces of that investigative mindset still reside with me. Yet I cannot help but suspect that the two—your tremendous power and the fact that you do not bleed while invoking it—are somehow related. Every zoanii sheds the sacred blood while embracing the zoana, even Her Majesty.”
“But what causes it?”
Mulcibar placed his fingers together in a steeple. “The priesthoods teach that the immaculata are the price levied by the gods for the gift of zoana. Blood feeds the power, and the power nourishes the universe.”
“Do you think that's why I don't get the wounds?” Horace asked. “Because I don't follow your ways?”
“It does not seem reasonable to me, but I am no theologian.”
“What does the scientist in you say?”
Mulcibar smiled. “That some tests are in order.”
They laughed, and Horace felt the weight he'd been carrying around inside his chest ease. Mulcibar stood up with a wince. “But for now,” he said, “I would like to try something that may give you better control over your power.”
“Yes, sir. That would be most welcome.”
“Very good. Now relax and stand normally. Breathe in through your nose and let it out. Now repeat after me.”
Mulcibar made a noise that sounded like a bullfrog croaking. Horace almost laughed, but the nobleman's face was serious. “All right,” he said, taking a relaxed pose.
Horace tried to reproduce the sound. It took him several tries, but eventually he got close enough. Then Mulcibar instructed him to fold his hands together with the forefingers extended and pressed together. After a couple minutes of croaking and holding his hands in the rigid position, Horace asked, “So why am I doing this?”
“The sound is designed to focus the mind and body. And the hand positioning aligns your qa to your purpose.”
“Which is what?”
This time when Mulcibar formed a ball of ice and threw it, Horace was more cognizant of the power that welled up inside him. Like a rising wave, it flowed up from his body and ran along his arms to his fingers. He could feel it wanting to burst forth, but he remembered the hole in the garden wall and fought to pull it back. The icy sphere exploded just inches away from his face. Splinters of ice flew in every direction, striking the pavestones at his feet and the leaves of the tree beside him, but not a single shard touched him. Horace exhaled. His whole body was humming.
Lord Mulcibar led him to the bench. Horace sat quietly until the tremors subsided. It felt like a flood of energy had rushed through his body, and was now slowly leaving.
“That was,” he said, “incredible. It didn't feel like what happened during the storms at all. It was more controlled.”
“The zoana is a wild force. Easily provoked. That was quite good, but you must learn to have precise control of the power at all times, or you will be a danger to everyone around you.”
Horace nodded and stood up. His legs were a little shaky, but he managed to stay upright. “All right. Let's get back to work then.”
“Very good, Master Horace.”
The afternoon waned as Horace spent two hours chanting with his hands locked into bizarre configurations while he tried to take control of his qa. By the end of the session, he was wrung out like he'd hiked twenty miles, and his head was killing him.
When Lord Mulcibar departed, Horace sat in the courtyard alone. The lesson played over and over in his mind, but rather than enjoying his limited successes, he dwelled on the failures. Control of the power seemed to slip through his grasp time and time again, leaving him frustrated and more than a little alarmed. He wished Alyra was there to talk to about it, and missing her added to his angst.
Someone knocked at his front door.
He hurried back inside his suite and answered it. Chancellor Unagon stood in the hallway with a pair of manservants.
“Yes?”
Unagon bowed and placed his right hand over his heart. Horace was getting better at understanding Akeshian, but the chancellor spoke too fast for him to follow. “I'm sorry. I didn't understand any of that.”
Chancellor Unagon frowned and then indicated that they wished to come inside. Horace backed up to give them room, and Unagon strode toward the bedchamber with his servants in tow. Horace hurried after them. “Hey! Excuse me!”
The chancellor opened the wardrobe and picked out a long magenta tunic with a silver starburst design on the chest, a matching skirt, and a pair of black sandals. Then he gestured to the servants and said something about helping Horace.
He held up his hands. “Wait a minute. Help me with what?”
Chancellor Unagon spoke slowly. “Dress you, sire. You are to meet the queen.”
Horace lowered his hands, and the servants went into motion. Soon Horace was wearing the selected outfit, with his face and hands washed and his hair combed. Chancellor Unagon fussed over him for about half an hour and then waved him toward the door. Horace obeyed. Outside, a squadron of the queen's bodyguard stood at attention. They saluted him in unison and then fell in around him.
What am I walking into now?
The soldiers took him a different way than before. As they started up a series of switchback staircases, a tremor of anxiety stirred in Horace. Visions of his last visit to the queen's boudoir flashed across his mind. He had to force some lurid thoughts out of his head.
Perhaps she's invited me to dinner on the roof?
The stairs opened into a hallway, a bit narrower than most of the palace passageways he'd seen. The soldiers opened a door, and ruddy sunlight poured in along with a strong breeze that rustled Horace's clothes. Stepping through, he entered onto a wide terrace at the top of the world. The patio was bedecked with so many plants—from flowers and shrubs to waving trees thirty feet tall—that it looked like a forest. Through the verdant décor, he spotted a marble balustrade along the edge overlooking a breathtaking view of the city below.
As the guards took up positions by the door, Horace looked around. The place was a paradise in the sky. He had leaned down to smell a large, yellow flower shaped like a water pitcher when the queen arrived through another door. She was accompanied by a squadron of bodyguards and one of the wizard twins, the one called Gilgar. The sorcerer glared at Horace from three steps behind the queen, and a little tickle traveled up the back of his neck. Horace was ready to pass it off as a product of his anxiety, but then he realized he'd felt it before—the exact same tickle on his neck—when he was practicing with Lord Mulcibar. In fact, he'd felt it several times since his arrival in Akeshia.
It must be tied to the zoana. Their presence, or the queen's, triggered it.
Horace made a formal bow. The queen returned a slight curtsey. This evening she wore a diaphanous gown of white silk, belted high on the waist. Curving designs were stitched into the gown in silver thread. She smiled at him. “I'm so glad
you accepted my invitation, Master Horace. I felt like taking an evening ride.”
“Ride, Your Excellence?”
He glanced around. Where could they possibly go up here? And what would they ri—?
Horace's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as a large oblong shape emerged from the shadow of the palace. It was long with curved sides, its wooden bottom extending to sharp wedges fore and aft. With majestic grace, it sailed down toward them.
No, it can't be possible.
The flying ship—and that's the only way he could describe it—floated down beside the terrace. Its upper deck had no masts or rigging, and nothing that resembled a wheelhouse. The gunwales were decorated with intertwining vines painted in gold leaf. This design continued to the forward section where it expanded into a bas relief display showing a row of ships sailing on a sea of clouds, all also done in gold. A purple canopy shaded the center deck.
Three men stood on the deck; one at the bow and two at the stern. As the ship got closer, Horace saw that each man clasped waist-high metal poles that rose from the planking.
“What do you think of my barge?” Byleth asked as she followed him to the balustrade.
Horace swallowed. “I would have never believed it if I wasn't seeing it for myself. A flying ship! A real flying ship just like in the legends. How does it work?”
She laid a hand on his wrist, sending feathery touches up his spine. “I'll explain during the trip.”
“We're actually going aboard?”
“Of course. I want to show you something.”
A voice hailed from behind them. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Master Horace.”
Lord Mulcibar emerged onto the terrace, hobbling on his cane. He had changed since meeting with Horace into a soft cornflower robe with a black cape.
“Good afternoon, my lord.” The queen drew nearer to Horace and shifted her hand to wrap around his upper arm. “Shall we?”
Lord Mulcibar nodded and waved them ahead. Horace, eager to see the flying ship up close, moved to the narrow gangplank that had been lowered. Byleth went across without pause, but Horace—despite his excitement—could not help from looking down. Empty space yawned on either side of the bridge, dropping hundreds of feet to the grounds below. His throat constricted at the sight and a momentary wave of vertigo took hold of him, but he forced his feet to carry him across.
He felt better when he stepped aboard the flying vessel and felt the buoyant spring of the deck. The wind blowing through his hair was dry and fragrant, but it was close enough to a sea breeze that he didn't mind. A faint vibration ran through the boards under his feet. It traveled up his legs and tickled his backbone, like he was standing on a vast beehive.
The deck was long but not very wide, and it felt crowded as the last bodyguard climbed aboard. The gangplank was pulled up, and the ship set off. It turned like a gigantic bird, with slow and gentle grace as it took a northwesterly course. The deck swayed gently from side to side, almost like the roll of a seagoing vessel.
“Where are we going?” Horace asked.
“We're taking a little tour,” the queen said. “Come. Stand with me over here.”
The others gave Horace and Byleth some room as she pulled him to the larboard side of the flying ship. He steeled himself to look over the polished railing that encircled the deck. The ship had risen even farther off the ground. The palace was already far behind and below them as they sailed over the city. The buildings and streets dwindled beneath them, the people shrinking to the size of fleas until he couldn't distinguish them anymore.
After a few minutes, his nervousness melted away. It felt good to be aboard a ship again, even one soaring hundreds of fathoms above the ground.
“Do you see there?” The queen pointed at a sprawling building with several wings and a large expanse of gardens inside a stone enclosure. “That is where I grew up. Except when my father sent me to the springs at Hikkak every winter.”
“Winter?” Horace said. “Does it get cold here then?”
“Oh, yes. Sometimes we have to wear jackets or shawls outside and burn coals in our rooms at night.” She pressed her breasts against his arm so that he could feel her small nipples through the silk. “Of course, there are more interesting ways to stay warm.”
Not sure how to respond, especially in the company of Lord Mulcibar and the guards, Horace studied the city beneath them. They were passing over blackened areas that looked like they had engulfed entire neighborhoods. The destruction was complete, leaving not a single outbuilding untouched. “Are those the granaries?”
“No. Those were the barracks of my city guard. They were burned down on the night of the storm.”
Horace looked to the queen, knowing he had to say something. “Your Excellence, I just want you to know I had nothing to do with the attack.”
She reached up to run a fingernail along the underside of his jaw. “Of course not, Horace. I never suspected you for a moment. It was done by my enemies, who want to see me dead.”
He held still, neither pulling back nor leaning into her. “People are trying to kill you?”
One of the soldiers shifted, making his armor creak. Horace glanced back. Everyone was watching them. Except Lord Mulcibar, who leaned against the starboard rail.
“Though I try to rule lightly,” the queen said, “there are some who would stop at nothing to pull me down. Your countrymen, for instance. They used the cover of the storm to kill my guards and burn the granaries that feed my people. If they are not stopped, someday they may succeed in ending my life.”
“I'm…I'm sorry. I hope they won't succeed.”
“I believe that. Do you recall that you asked me about Tammuris?”
“Yes. That envoy, Lord Baphetor, mentioned it. You never told me why.”
“The Tammuris comes in five days on the new moon. That evening I must wed my betrothed, Prince Tatannu. Lord Baphetor was so kind to remind me that my fate has been sealed.”
“I don't understand.”
“That is the pact I signed with the other cities when my father was killed.” Byleth leaned over the rail, which made Horace's stomach want to crawl up into his throat. “In exchange for my life, I promised to wed the son of my father's archenemy. That day approaches, and when it comes the Sun Temple will rule Erugash in name as well as deed, and I will cease to be valuable. Do you know what happens to a queen once she no longer has any value?”
“In Arnos, the queen is the mother of our people. She always has value.”
“In Akeshia, a woman has only what value her husband says she has, whether she is a queen or a shepherdess.”
Horace cleared his throat and flailed for another subject, anything to take her mind off the situation. He decided on something that interested him very much. “So are you going to tell me how this ship works?”
She took him by the elbow. “Come along, Master Horace.”
What followed was a detailed explanation of the flying ship, which, though extraordinary, was rather simple. The three men holding onto the metal poles were, of course, zoanii, and they powered the ship's engine—which was kept belowdecks—with their magic. The ship was steered by the helmsman at the fore instead of the aft like on a nautical vessel. The men at the stern controlled the amount of power that flowed to the engine.
“What if something happened to one of the men powering the ship?” Horace asked. “Would it fall?”
“Not at once,” Byleth answered. “With two zoanii powering the engine, we could still fly, though at a far slower pace.”
“And with only one?”
“I'm not sure. Shall I command them to let go and see what happens?”
“Ah, no, thank you, Excellence. Can I see the engine?”
Byleth huddled closer and squeezed his arm. “I don't know. It's quite cramped below, and I might not be able to restrain myself with you in such close quarters.”
He leaned into her until their faces were almost touching. “Why don't we find out?�
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She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Are you more interested in me or how the engine works?”
He couldn't help from smiling. “Well, both, actually.”
“Unfortunately, only those trained by the imperial school in Ceasa are allowed to view the inner workings. I'm sure you understand.”
Of course I do. If Arnos had a vehicle like this, we'd keep it a secret, too.
Horace turned his attention to the land below. The sun was just a sliver of gold above the horizon. They had passed far beyond the city limits. The land hugging the river was divided into square sections of honey-brown fields, but everything beyond the riparian zone was a wasteland of cracked earth and dust. Ahead to the northwest, the wastes gave way to a vast golden sea. Even from a distance—and it had to be a score of leagues or more—the desert was impressive, beautiful and mysterious like the women of this strange land, and just as dangerous. The sun was setting before them, framing the world in a brilliant orange patina.
“Tell me more about your homeland,” the queen said.
Horace studied the sky. It was crystal blue without a hint of clouds. From this high, he felt like he could see forever. “I miss the smells.”
“The perfumes of your pale northern ladies?”
“No. The smells of leather and horse. The stink of the city streets, the middens and the fish smells of the docks. The smell of pitch and pinewood.”
She wrinkled her tiny nose. “It sounds filthy.”
“It is. But it's home.”
He wanted to ask her if he could leave, just take a ship and go back to Arnos, but he was terrified of her answer. Why had she brought him along on this cruise? Somehow, he didn't think it was to woo him. Not in the romantic sense, at least.
“Our teachers say that the western countries are always making war,” she said. “What do you say to that?”
“I guess I'd say they're right. We've had several wars just during my lifetime. And the Great War between the Nimean Empire and its outer states was only a century and a half ago. But we have peaceful times as well. Our trade depends on it.”
