by Jon Sprunk
“I'm not here to be your damned messenger!”
The high priest pursed his lips—which also had a faint ruby tinge—and Rimesh took a deep breath while he contained his anger. It was time for a different tact. “I apologize for the outburst, High Priest. But I am to ask you in person, as the representative of the Primarch and the Council of Hierarchs, if you had anything to do with this attack on the queen.”
“I do not answer to envoys, Menarch. If the Council wishes to question me, they have the right to—”
“We require that the queen remain alive, at least until she has wed your Nisusi princeling. Her premature demise could destabilize our hold over this city at a time when we need to be most vigilant. The mood in the streets is not good. A spark like this might be enough to—”
“Bah.” The high priest waved his hand like he was swatting at flies. “The streets of Erugash are never in a good mood. They breed resentment and false piety the way whores breed disease and fatherless whelps. You would do better to focus your attention on uncovering your suspected heretics than worrying about the city's politics.”
Rimesh drew back as his suspicions crystalized before his eyes.
“Don't glare at me in that manner,” the high priest said. “You would like Byleth removed from the throne as much as I. You need not deny it. She is a blight on this city, encouraging the people to seek out new ways, mocking the faith. And now she takes a savage to her bed. No, Menarch, do not reproach me. I know not what hand was at work, but while I must denounce the act in public, here in the sanctity of my temple I will applaud the effort.”
Rimesh rolled back his shoulders. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but the high priest had given him no choice. “Kadamun et'Hittsura-Amur, by the authority of the Primarch, you are hereby stripped of your rank and power.”
“Save your threats for lesser men. I've been the leader of this temple since before you were inducted to the cloth. Now you will excuse me. I was in the middle of evening devotions when you interrupted.”
As the high priest started to turn away, Rimesh snapped his fingers. The door of the chamber opened, and soft boots scuffed across the tiles as a quartet of Order men came to stand beside him.
“Leave your belongings,” Rimesh said. “You will go at once to the seclusion cells to dwell upon your actions until I send for you.”
He expected resistance, even a lengthy tirade about his abuse of the Primarch's authority, but Kadamun's shoulders slumped forward and his neck bent down in a long curve as if his head had suddenly become too heavy to hold up.
Two Brothers of the Order took the demoted high priest away to his new cell, and the others—at a gesture from Rimesh—went to remove Kadamun's painted slaves. The acolytes at the entrance peered inside and then ducked away when they spotted him. Rimesh gazed around the chamber with its gaudy decor.
I did not ask for this burden, but I accept it as the price of my duty.
When the servants were gone, Rimesh went to seek out a writing desk. He had much to report. And then he needed to revise his plans in the face of these new developments. If the queen was dead, that changed everything. He needed to position the Order and temple soldiers where they could respond to potential rioting. Also, the members of the royal court would need to be detained until the succession was decided. Speaking of which, perhaps they no longer required the prince of Nisus to control the city. Perhaps, finally, the temple could rule in word as well as deed. A return to the proper order of things. Of course, the kings of the other nine cities would expect some payment to ease their royal consciences, but the temple coffers were deep.
As he passed down a short hallway with several doors, Rimesh thought of the savage still in the queen's company. Horace Delrosa from Arnos. Best if the man was dead, too. An abomination such as him could not be suffered to walk free under the holy light of day.
The sun had set over Erugash. Although light from thousands of candles, torches, and lamps flickered across the city, all was quiet, as if everyone were holding their breath, afraid to break the fragile stillness. The news had flown from the palace that the queen was missing, and ill rumors lurked in every home and beer hall.
Alyra sat in the parlor of the suite, chewing her fingernails as she watched the door. She hadn't been able to sleep after hearing about the crash, so she bathed away the grime of the tunnels, put on a new fresh tunic, and cleaned every room of the suite. After that there had been nothing left to do but worry. She felt like a wash rag that had been wrung to shreds. She got up every time she thought she heard a noise, hoping it was Horace or news of his discovery, and each time it turned out to be just her imagination playing tricks. The same thoughts kept swimming around in her head. Was the queen dead? Was Horace? Were they lost in the desert or hurt?
She couldn't help wondering how this would affect her mission. If the queen was dead, the Temple of Amur would surely move to annex the city. The rulers of the other nine cities would protest, of course, but would they be willing to go to war over it? The initial chaos might benefit Nemedia, but her superiors would hardly be glad to hear that the Sun Cult had further improved its temporal power. Yet, if Byleth survived and Horace died, Alyra didn't see how the queen could possibly hold onto her throne. The wedding would go through as planned, and then the Sun Cult would gain control over the city through its Nisusi puppets.
But the Nemedians know this. All this time we've been undermining the power of the royals, and it's the cults—the Sun Cult especially—who have most benefited. And I never questioned it. Honestly, I didn't care as long as my mission hurt the empire. But why lift the priests to power? What do we gain from that?
Suddenly, she wasn't sure about the direction her life had taken. Everything had been so clear before. Before Horace I believed in my mission, heart and soul. Now I don't know what to think. The world doesn't make allowances for fools with love in their eyes. And yet part of me would like to put down this burden and run away with him, far away from this place and its endless perfidy.
Her heart almost burst from her chest when the front door opened. Alyra ran to the atrium and stopped, transfixed, as Horace walked in. His face was scratched, and his fine clothes were covered in mud, but otherwise he looked fine. She took two long steps and threw her arms around him. She was intensely aware of his smell, the way it drew her closer. With a slight cough, she released him and backed away. “I heard about the accident,” she said. “Are you all right? I feared you might be hurt, or…”
“No, not at all. I'm fine, if you can believe it.”
“Is the queen all right?”
“Yes. She got a couple bruises, but nothing serious. The royal physicians are hovering around her now.”
“Thank the gods,” Alyra breathed and was surprised to find that she meant it.
“Lord Mulcibar survived as well, although he's limping worse than before. There was an attack with magic and everything got very confusing.”
“Tell me everything while I run your bath.”
“That sounds divine.” He brushed a hand down the front of his filthy tunic as she led him into the bathing room. “And we should probably just burn these.”
“That's what I was thinking, too.”
Alyra rang for hot water and then helped him out of the clothes. Mud streaked his legs and upper body, but she was relieved not to find any injuries worse than a few bruises. “So what happened? Where did she take you?”
“Out to the desert. She wanted to show me one of her towns that the crusaders had taken.”
Omikur. What was she up to, taking him there? Did she think she could change his loyalties?
“We rode in a flying ship. It was amazing. Alyra, you wouldn't believe how far you could see from up in the sky. It felt…well, indescribable.”
“What of the town?” she asked, and bit her lip. Don't pry too hard.
“It was under siege by her army when we got there. Then a storm appeared over the town and things got crazy.” Horace let out a heavy sigh. “But
that was nothing compared to the way back. I don't know what happened. One minute we were flying along with no problems, and the next minute there was an explosion and ship dropped out of the sky. People were falling over the side and the queen was unconscious. I thought we were all going to die. But then I…”
He got a distant look on his face.
“Yes? What did you do?” A knock on the door distracted her. “Wait here.”
Alyra rushed out to the atrium and admitted a procession of slaves carrying buckets of steaming water. They filled the tub while Horace sat on a bench with a towel over his lap. Alyra let the slaves out and returned to find Horace already in the water, his head reclined against the side of the tub, eyes closed. She took a soft brush and a flask of bathing oil and knelt behind him. He seemed like he was on the verge of falling asleep. “Now tell me everything that happened after the explosion.”
As she listened to his rendition, she was appalled by the brazen nature of the attack. Assassination attempts were nothing unusual in Akeshian politics, but they were usually done in private, with poison in the cup or venomous reptiles in one's bed, not with magical assaults in front of witnesses.
But they wouldn't have expected any witnesses to survive, would they?
The more she thought about it, the more an attack over the desert made sense. The conspirators could claim it was an unfortunate accident. Flying ships had crashed before. Never with such an important ensemble aboard, but still it was plausible. Then Horace described how Gilgar had tried to finish off the survivors with a magical mud-man construction. As he described their battle, Alyra's heart thumped at the base of her throat.
“Lord Mulcibar called it a kurgarru,” he said at the conclusion of his tale.
Alyra swallowed her fear. Her handlers would want to know about this right away. “It sounds very frightening. Your bathwater is getting cold. I'll call for more.”
She made to leave, intending to stop by her chamber and add a quick note to her report about what she'd found in Lord Astaptah's sanctum, but Horace got out of the tub. “That's all right,” he said. “I'm about as clean as I'm going to get.”
While he wrapped himself in a towel, Alyra moved toward the door. “Then let me fetch you a drink.”
“Wait. I have something to tell you first.”
She stopped at the doorway. The details of the shipwreck had destroyed her calm, scattering her thoughts in a hundred directions. Foremost among them was a deep-seated fear. Fear that this foe she had set herself against was too powerful for her to manage. Fear that Horace was in more danger than she had realized. And fear for herself. For the first time since she had set herself on this path, she was genuinely afraid. It took all of her resolve to stop and turn around.
Dripping water, Horace stepped closer to her. He reached up and touched her collar. It was shockingly intimate, and she felt a desire to pull away, but she stood her ground.
“Before the attack,” he said, “I asked the queen to free you. And she said yes.”
Alyra felt her eyebrows coming together in a frown. “You what?”
A slight tingle buzzed around her neck. Then Horace pulled his hand away, and her collar came with it. “You are a free woman, Alyra.”
“Why would you do that?” Her voice creaked as the words escaped into the air. She knew it wasn't her place to question him, but she was too angry all of a sudden to maintain her composure. “How…why?”
He tossed the collar on a bench and smiled. “You're welcome.”
With a growl that came from the pit of her stomach, she spun around and marched out of the chamber on stiff legs. She had wanted to see him so badly, and now all she wanted was to get away from him. The slam of her bedroom door was loud enough to drown out the thoughts in her head. Grinding her teeth back and forth, she retrieved a fresh piece of papyrus and a pen from under her bed and sat down at her small writing desk, but she kept her hands by her sides as she stared at the blank page. Her head felt like it was about to explode from the rush of emotions. She wanted to scream. She wanted to go back out there and shake him. After a few moments, the rage passed, and she recalled the look of confusion on his face right before she stomped away. He had been trying to do the right thing.
Yes, and his sense of decency just destroyed three years of work.
Tears formed in her eyes as she thought back to all the humiliations she had endured since she entered the queen's service, all the cruelties and horrors she'd been forced to witness. As a slave she'd been subjected to the worst of human nature, but the role had also granted her almost unrestricted access to her adversaries and the cover to act from the shadows to bring about their downfall. Now it was gone. He had freed her from slavery, but he had also condemned her to a life without meaning in the same stroke. But he didn't know what he had done, and that was the crux of her anger, because she couldn't even tell him.
She laid her head on the desk and cried.
Horace flinched as the door to Alyra's room slammed shut.
What the hell just happened?
He hadn't known exactly what to expect when he told her about her freedom. Happiness, certainly. A touch of gratitude, perhaps. But in his wildest dreams he hadn't anticipated this. He felt like he had insulted her but had no clue as to how or why.
With a sigh, he went to his bedchamber and searched the wardrobe for something light to wear. He just wanted to relax this evening, maybe go to bed early and sleep off the day's events. As he pulled out a maroon robe and laid it on the bed, a knock resounded from the front door. Horace listened, but it didn't sound like Alyra was going to answer it. Stifling a grumble, he threw the robe around his shoulders and went to the foyer. The door opened just before he reached it. “Chancellor?”
Unagon entered, bowing his shaven head. “Good evening, Belzama.”
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“You have been summoned by Her Majesty, sire.”
“Now?”
The chancellor beckoned to the hallway, and two young servants entered.
Horace looked over his shoulder, hoping Alyra would appear, but she was evidently too angry at him to investigate. “All right,” he said, trying not to frown and probably failing. “Wait here.”
But the chancellor and the servants followed him to his bedchamber. Within seconds Horace had been stripped of his comfortable robe and stood naked in the middle of the floor while Unagon flipped through his wardrobe. A tunic of cornflower-blue silk with silver embroidery and a matching woolen skirt were selected, along with a clean pair of sandals. As he was helped into the clothes, Horace thought the ensemble looked too official for a casual audience. His throat tightened. He couldn't handle any more surprises tonight.
When he was dressed, Horace was ushered to a chair where he was shaved by an expert hand while Unagon supervised. After his hair was brushed and his teeth were cleaned, Horace was asked to stand for final inspection. He felt like a doll standing in front of the long mirror, but he had to admit he looked better. Even the skirt looked good on him. “Well, I guess I'm ready. Lead the way.”
As he followed the chancellor and servants back to the suite's common area, Horace glanced at Alyra's door.
I should go say something before I leave. At least tell her where I'm going.
Why? So she can bite off my nose again? Give her time to cool down and I'll see her later.
Out in the hallway, Horace hardly noticed the squad of soldiers that awaited them. His thoughts were still back in his suite with the young woman he believed he had been getting to know, until tonight. Oil lamps on the walls gave off a sweet smell and filled the ceiling with a light haze. Chancellor Unagon led the party through narrow corridors and down spiral stairs for several floors. The soldiers’ boots tromped on the stone tiles in unison, even on the steps.
After several minutes, they arrived outside the enormous doors of the throne chamber. Ten guards in purple uniforms stood before them, perfectly still. Chancellor Unagon bowed and announced Horac
e. The guards stepped away, and the doors opened.
A crowd of people in exquisite apparel turned to face him. Horace recognized many of the faces from the fete and knew them as members of the noble houses of Erugash—the queen's court, all dressed up as if for another gala. Horace swallowed as he started toward them. Lord Mulcibar stood at the foot of the throne dais. The queen's First Sword stood opposite the old lord in a suit of plate armor, with three gold knots emblazoned on his shoulder. Horace couldn't recall the man's name. He was a crusty veteran soldier, bald, about forty years old, with the stern bearing of a career officer. One hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his side.
From the doorway, Chancellor Unagon called out, “Horace Delrosa, loyal subject of the empire!”
Horace frowned at the introduction. Yet he strode ahead regardless. The dais did not remain empty. The door behind the throne opened, and half a dozen young women in silken robes entered to take places along the sides of the dais stairs. Then the queen came out and put all the other women to shame. A flowing turquoise silk gown accented her copper skin. Her hair hung straight down her back, adorned only with a golden headband.
Gilgar's brother, Xantu, followed the queen to her throne. Horace tensed at the sight of the sorcerer, envisioning the mud-monster standing in his place. He was shocked to see the man still guarding the queen after what his brother had done, but everyone else seemed at ease. Xantu watched the queen with his hands folded behind his back, appearing every inch the loyal servant.
Music began to play from somewhere beyond the walls. The sound of horns blended with plucked string tones to the slow, soft beat of a drum. Not sure what to do, Horace walked until he reached the bottom step of the dais and stopped. He tried to remain calm while everyone stared at him, even as his brain screamed that something horrible was about to happen.
Another woman came from behind the throne to stand beside the queen. Garbed in a bright white robe with silver trim, she was very old. Her silver hair flowed down around her shoulders. To Horace's amazement, Byleth bowed her head and descended a step in deference to this old woman.
