by Jon Sprunk
The crowd fell silent as the woman in white lifted her hands and addressed them in a rich contralto voice. “This night we gather before the gods of heaven and earth to welcome a new light into the celestial realm. In the name of Lady Sippa, She Who Lights the Darkness, who presents this man?”
Mulcibar stepped forward. “I do.”
A murmur passed through the crowd, but Horace was concentrating on the old woman's words, which had the ring of a religious ritual. He was torn between two desires. On one hand he didn't want to take part in any heathen rite, but he also didn't want to jeopardize his progress with these people. He was just starting to feel accepted, at least by some of them, such as the queen. Byleth watched the proceedings with a serene smile.
“Master Horace,” the old woman said. “You have been found in possession of the holy zoana, which has been passed down to us from the stars. As the first zoanii did in ancient times, this court welcomes you into their sacred family.”
Someone gasped, and another person grumbled something Horace couldn't make out.
The old woman turned and nodded, and one of the ladies-in-waiting, or whatever they were, carried a small box to the queen. Byleth opened it and lifted out a golden medallion on a long chain. “By the authority bestowed upon me as queen of Erugash, and in the name of the emperor, may he reign forever unto eternity…”
Did her voice stumble on those last words? Lord Mulcibar's lips moved as if he wanted to smirk.
“…I, Byleth et'Urdrammor, hereby elevate you to the rank of ne'jun with all the customary rights and privileges.”
More than a little uncomfortable from all this attention, Horace ducked his head to accept the necklace and get it over with. Yet the queen continued to speak.
“In addition, you are named our new Commander of the Queen's Guard. Lord Hunzuu?”
As Horace stepped back with his medallion, the First Sword drew his weapon. He held the sword in both hands as if about to offer the weapon to Horace, but then reversed it and set the point against the seam between his breastplate and scaled skirt. Horace froze in fear as his brain registered what was about to happen. Then Lord Hunzuu lunged forward, falling on the hilt, and the blade pierced through his stomach. Horace stumbled backward, his gorge rising. Everyone else in the chamber watched the soldier's suicide without expression.
When it was over, and the body lay still on the floor in a widening pool of blood, Byleth climbed back to her throne and sat down. “Lord Horace, our personal safety is now in your capable hands. Please come to our chambers at the seventh hour to discuss your new responsibilities.”
Mulcibar bowed, and Horace did likewise. His legs felt like they were going to buckle as he and the nobleman backed away from the dais together, bowing every tenth step. Then they were outside the hall, and the doors closed in front of them. Horace glimpsed the queen walking behind the throne with Xantu and her ladies in tow, while the old woman in white stood over Lord Hunzuu's corpse.
“What the hell—?” Horace said, on the verge of shouting.
Mulcibar held up a hand and glanced at the guards positioned outside the doors. With a curled finger, he beckoned Horace to follow him down the wide hallway.
After the ceremony, Lord Mulcibar took Horace to an outdoor eatery where they sat on a rooftop overlooking the city and drank fiery concoctions under the stars. Mulcibar gave several congratulatory toasts, but otherwise they spoke little.
While he nursed his sixth cup of spirits laced with lime juice, Horace played back the crash in his mind. Something had been bothering him. “Why would Gilgar betray the queen? I don't understand what could possess someone like him, who had everything, to do that.”
Mulcibar looked over, bleary-eyed in the candlelight. “We rarely know what people are thinking in the privacy of their own thoughts. Some zoanii use mental sifting on their servants and vassals, but Her Majesty has seldom done so. Perhaps that will change now, though I hope not. The queen enjoys the support of her people, more than any king I've ever seen, because while she is a stern mistress, she is not cruel.”
Horace started to nod in agreement when another thought sizzled through his brain. “Why did the power react like that? At the riverbank. I wasn't trying to summon the water. I was…I don't know what I was trying to do, but hitting that thing with a big wave was the furthest thing from my mind.”
Mulcibar reached for his cup but found it empty and pushed it away with a sigh. “The zoana is more than a source of power. It guides us through our intentions.”
“It controls us?”
“Not exactly. Many zoanii spend their entire lives trying to understand the power. There are tomes in the royal archives you should study, going back centuries.”
It had never occurred to Horace that he could visit the archives. Perhaps Alyra would help him translate. “This sounds strange, but it felt like the river came alive somehow. Like it was fighting for me, or through me.”
“That is curious, but not altogether implausible.” When Horace frowned, Mulcibar continued, “The Typhon River is Akeshia. Even our name, the Land of the Black Earth, comes from its rich soils that sustain us. But the river is more than that. It is the embodiment of our entire culture. The old stories say that during the Annunciation when the gods came down to earth to see what they had wrought, Temmu, queen of the waters, claimed Akeshia for herself. She created the Typhon to protect this land and its people. In fact, the first people to settle here were called the Temmurites. They were conquered by a tribe called the Kuldeans more than a thousand years ago and vanished from the earth. And then my ancestors, the Akeshii, conquered the Kuldeans around six centuries ago.”
“And you consider my people warlike? Sure, we knock each other around some, but we don't slaughter entire nations.”
Mulcibar smiled as a servant girl placed a new cup before him. “We have a violent history, and some of that continues to this day. But you can still see signs of the Kuldeans among us. We borrowed their architecture and their letters. We even adopted their gods!”
The old nobleman slapped his knee as if he'd just told the funniest joke in the world. They finished their drinks and rode back to the palace. Gazing out the curtains of the palanquin, Horace admitted to himself that Erugash was a beautiful city, especially at night when the moon shone down on the pale rooftops. Mulcibar imparted another tidbit of information as he dropped Horace off at the palace gates. Prince Zazil had gone missing.
“Is the queen all right?” Horace asked. “She must be worried out of her mind.”
“She appears to have taken it in stride.”
One of the gate wardens had to help Horace navigate the palace's maze of stairs and corridors. By the time he arrived back to his rooms, he was so tired and inebriated he could barely walk. The guardsman got him inside and onto one of the divans in the sitting chamber before leaving.
Horace leaned back against the sumptuous cushions. Beams of moonlight slanted through the room's darkness and formed pools of silver on the floor.
All hail the queen's new chief bodyguard. Until I mess up, and then I get the honor of killing myself for Her Excellence's amusement.
Soft footsteps sounded across the room. “Horace?”
Alyra stood at the door to her room. Her hair was mussed as if she'd been tossing and turning in her sleep. “First Sword Horace, present!” he answered, and for some reason that made him chuckle.
“Are you…?” She came closer. When the moonlight caught her, Horace froze. She was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen since his wife.
“What?”
“I'm sorry about before,” she said.
He waved a hand in the air. “It's all right.”
“No. You were being kind, kinder than I had any right to expect. I was caught by surprise and reacted badly. Please forgive me.”
“Sure. Come sit with me.”
She came over to the divan. Her scent penetrated the miasma of spirits swirling around in his head. He tou
ched her hair where it lay on her shoulders. Then Sari's image appeared to him, the way she had looked the last time he saw her. There was something in Alyra's eyes, too. A note of curiosity. Horace let his hand drop to the cushion.
“They made the old guard commander kill himself,” he said. “Did you know that? He just put his sword against his belly and…” He rammed both hands against his stomach. “Done.”
She tucked one leg under the other as she leaned back beside him. “I know. It's their custom. When a soldier fails, there's only one way he can make amends.”
“It's fucking insane.”
“Because you're not Akeshian. If the queen hadn't asked for his life, the shame would have been greater. This way, his family can keep their honor.”
Horace snorted. “Honor and shame. What good are they if you're dead?”
“Don't you believe in a life after this one?”
“Sure, but we're talking about the here and now.”
“You have to learn how the Akeshians think. For them, the next life isn't an abstract idea. It's the cornerstone of their entire lives, from birth to death.”
“That's…”
“Crazy? Not to them. You're an important man now, Horace. You have rank and authority, not to mention your magic.”
“Yes, let's not mention that.”
Alyra sat up and pushed her hair back over her ear. Horace watched the gesture, so natural she probably didn't notice she did it, but he was entranced. Sari did the same thing when she was trying to convince him of something. He found himself drifting into thoughts of the past until Alyra's voice jerked him back to the present. “I'm sorry. What?”
She was watching him closely, her eyes big and dark. “Horace, you won't be able to hide anymore.”
He laughed, struck by the concern in her tone. “Is that what I've been doing all this time? I was taken captive, beaten, marched across a desert, and attacked at every turn.”
“Yes. Those things were horrible, but they are nothing compared to what you face now. You are a foreigner, and yet you possess the zoana, which is as close to divinity for the Akeshians as the Prophet is to you. And being zoanii is about more than religion. It's also political, and the Akeshians play politics like other people wage war. They will not sit idle while you get your bearings. They'll come for you.”
The breeze from the open window caressed the back of Horace's neck. “Then what should I do?”
“Stay one step ahead of them and don't be afraid to meet their hostility with force. Trying to negotiate will only make you look weak in their eyes. And stay near the queen. She seeks to use you, obviously.”
Horace fought back a smirk. Was that jealousy in her voice? “Obviously.”
“But that doesn't mean you cannot use her, too. Erugash is one of the most powerful cities in the empire. As the queen's fortunes rise, so, too, can yours.”
Listening to her, Horace realized that Alyra cared about what happened to him. She was probably the only one who did in the entire country. “I…,” he started to say, but then trailed off as his tongue became tangled in the powerful emotions swelling inside him.
“What?”
“I was just going to ask what I've done to deserve such compassion. You're a slave and—”
“Not any longer.”
He sat up, not sure if she was starting a fight, but then he saw the smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “I should have asked you before I approached the queen about that.”
“No, it was a noble gesture. I'm sure the queen was surprised.”
“She was…uncertain of the results.”
“Did Her Majesty suggest that I would be more attentive after I was freed? Or less?”
Horace was glad for the dark, to hide his embarrassment. “She, ah, wasn't specific.”
Alyra ran her fingers along his jaw. His heart started beating faster and louder. His throat, though amply lubricated with many drinks, was suddenly dry. “Well,” she said, “I hope you didn't think that taking off my collar would obligate me to do anything…special…for you. Or to you.”
“No!” He lowered his voice. “Not at all. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Good. Because I'd hate for you to misinterpret this.”
She leaned forward and put her mouth to his. Her kiss was tender but insistent at the same time. Her tongue dipped between his lips. Despite his inebriated condition and the conflicting thoughts in his head, he found himself responding to her. Eventually, she pulled back.
Horace took a moment to catch his breath. “That was unexpected.”
“Good.”
Alyra got up and walked back to her room. Horace didn't know whether or not she wanted him to follow, not until she closed the door firmly behind her. He sighed.
God in Heaven, you certainly made women to test us, didn't you?
Eventually he tottered to his own room. Still in his clothes, he collapsed on the bed. He thought he should drink some water, but he was too tired and the pitcher was on the other side of the room. With a yawn, he closed his eyes.
Horace lifted his head from the pillow and listened as fragments of the dream spun around in his mind like jagged puzzle pieces. He could still feel the fierce heat of Sari's grip on his hand, making his old scars tingle.
He thought he'd heard a noise, but everything was quiet. It must have been the dream. Trying to clear his mind, he closed his eyes again.
A faint creak reached his ears.
Horace sat up. As he looked across the dark room, he wondered if it was Alyra. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He couldn't help but feel he was betraying Sari. Yet he also couldn't deny his attraction to Alyra. She was beautiful and intelligent, the kind of woman that men fought wars over. The door creaked as if someone was pushing against it. Was the latch stuck?
Horace wished he had gotten that drink before he went to bed. His mouth tasted of spirits and beer. He could see the door, but it wasn't opening. The creaking continued louder than before. A sense of enormous power swept over him, and he felt an irrational urge to pull the sheets over his head like he'd done when he was a child and something frightened him. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed to check it out. As his feet touched the cool floor, a sudden pain penetrated his chest, and a horrible smell like raw sewage swept through the room. Horace tried to stand up, but the agony boring through his breastbone made breathing difficult. Through the pain, he saw an inky shadow play across his bedroom door. It looked like a black rope or a serpent crawling through the crack between the door and jamb. A second identical shadow joined it, and then a third. Before Horace could take a full step, wood crackled and the door was ripped out of its frame. He stopped, fear seizing his insides as something heavy pounded on the floor hard enough to send vibrations up his legs. Then something hard struck him in the chest. The air left his lungs as he was catapulted over the mattress and onto the floor on the other side. He never saw what hit him.
Gasping for breath, Horace barely had time to clamber to his knees before a powerful grip seized him by the back of the neck. A hot wind blew in his face and choked him with its horrid stench. He reached up behind his head in an effort to break free. His blood turned cold as his fingers closed around a huge, hairy wrist as big around as his thigh, iron-hard with corded sinew under leathery flesh. Sharp nails dug into his neck as the massive arm threw him across the room.
Horace struck the wardrobe, shoulder first. Wood exploded as he burst through the door panel and fell, half inside and half out of the cabinet. Heavy footsteps slapped on the floor behind him. Pulling himself out of the wardrobe, Horace felt a sharp pain jabbing him under the ribs. Looking down, he saw a piece of wood sticking out of his right side. Blood soaked into his clothes. He pulled on the end of the giant splinter and hissed as it came free. He swayed back against the frame of the wardrobe just as a line of raw agony ripped across his abdomen. More blood dripped from a set of three parallel cuts that ran across his stomach from hip to hip l
ike he'd been attacked by some wild beast.
With memories of the kurgarru fresh in his mind, Horace twisted away and flung himself toward the door. Something thin and ropelike caught his ankle, and he sprawled headlong onto the floor. His blood was everywhere, coating his hands and making it difficult to find traction on the slick tiles. He clawed his way to one of the bed's foot posts. He was hauling himself up it when a scream rang out from elsewhere in the suite.
Alyra.
His fear vanished. Fingertips tingling, Horace opened himself to the power. The pain of his injuries was shoved away. All he could feel was the zoana, urging him to lash out. He turned around. A huge shape rose before him, the top of its head almost brushing the ten-foot-high ceiling. Although he couldn't make out many details in the dark, Horace knew at once it was nothing human. And nothing like any animal he'd ever seen either. Rubbery appendages hung from its head, wriggling like a nest of serpents, and horn-like projections rose from the backs of its long arms. The awful stench rolled off of it.
Clenching his teeth to keep from vomiting, Horace thrust out his right hand. The power inside him hesitated for an instant, like a hiccup, and then erupted, not from his outstretched hand, but from his chest. The pain flared inside him, so powerful that his vision dimmed and his muscles locked up in an agonizing rictus.
Strangest of all, he didn't see anything happen. No ray of fire shot across the room, no orb of ice or stone, no gust of wind. Nothing at all like the elemental dominions he'd been taught about. And yet the creature staggered back as if it had been struck by a battering ram. A titanic roar resounded off the walls. Horace winced as he poured out more of his power, concentrating through the rising pain. Starlight filtered through a cloud of dust forming behind the creature where his power was chewing a hole in the wall. The monster tried to resist the invisible force, growling and swiping at the air with its hooked talons. Tile crackled as its horned toes dug into the floor. Yet it could not reach him. Horace looked around. He could hold the creature at bay, it seemed, but it would be on him the moment he let up. He didn't see how he could get to Alyra without releasing it.
