by Jon Sprunk
A large shape loomed in Horace's peripheral vision. He ducked, but too late as the chair crashed into him, heaved by his attacker. The heavy furniture struck him on the side of the shoulder and spun him completely around. Horace grasped the bedpost to keep from falling. His right arm felt like it had been torn from the socket.
He shoved away from the post as the beast's shadow towered over him. With no time to think, he just reacted. His power flared again, and again there was no visible effect, but he sensed a sudden and dreadful connection to the creature, throbbing in his hand as if he held the creature's beating heart. He could feel the blood pumping through that mighty muscle, strong and fierce. Horace wasn't sure what he was doing, but in that instant he didn't care. He squeezed his fingers.
The creature halted, grasping its chest with both hands. Horace tightened his fist, and the creature teetered back, tearing its own flesh away in bloody strips to dig inside. Spurred on by this behavior, Horace twisted his fist sideways and yanked. A hollow gurgle issued from the creature's mouth as it fell on its side with an impact that shook the floor. A crystal candleholder rolled off the sideboard table and broke. The creature didn't move.
Horace ran for the door. The sitting parlor was dark, but enough starlight came through the large window for him to navigate between the divans. He kicked open Alyra's door. Candlelight flickered against the walls and cast deep shadows in the corners of the small room. Alyra stood against the far wall, her white tunic drenched in blood from long scratches across her upper chest. She waved a long knife back and forth as if fending off something she could not see.
Horace reached for his powers again. He found it more difficult this time, like trying to exercise a fatigued muscle. The magic came back slowly instead of the instant rush he'd felt before. Once it came, though, his view of the room changed. A horrible, squat shape appeared in front of Alyra. It hissed from a dog-like snout as it pawed the air, trying to get past her weapon.
Ignoring his throbbing shoulder, Horace snatched up the chair beside Alyra's desk and approached the creature from behind. Alyra glanced up, and her eyes grew wide as she looked over his head. “Behind you!”
A heavy weight dropped on his back. Claws dug into his shoulders as he was knocked to the floor. The chair clattered out of his grip, and Horace found himself pinned face-down by what felt like a small pony perched on his lower back. He tried to push up, but his right arm was useless, and his left lacked the strength to move both him and his assailant. Alyra yelled as deep scratches opened across her knee and slashed with her knife, but the creature stayed beyond her reach. Then Horace's vision was wrenched away as the thing on top of him yanked his head back by the hair. Thin claws grasped for the front of his throat.
Horace struggled to buck the creature off his back, but he was held fast. Blood dribbled down his neck as the claws dug deeper. Then the grasp holding him went limp, and the weight slid off his back. Horace scrambled away. Another small demon lay on the floor with a knife hilt protruding from its throat. Alyra had jumped up on her bed as the other creature swiped at her ankles. Horace lunged and grabbed it by the bony leg. A fierce heat erupted inside him, filling him with tremendous strength. He jerked his arm and flung the creature across the room. Its impact dented the stone wall and knocked mortar loose from the ceiling. The dog-faced thing dropped beside its brother and did not move again. Yellow ichor dripped from its head, which was caved in down to the bridge of its snout.
Horace rolled over onto his back. The fire inside him was dwindling, leaving him wrung out and exhausted. Alyra sat on her bed, her chin drooping to her lacerated chest. He crawled over to her and touched her leg, careful not to aggravate her wounds. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, looking as tired as he felt. “I think so. What about y— oh, your arm!”
His right arm hung slack, leaking blood from several cuts and a deep tear where it joined to his shoulder. Oddly, it didn't hurt too badly. Then his sense of balance abandoned him without warning. Alyra caught him by his good arm as he fell back against the wall with a minimal amount of jarring.
Horace took a deep breath. His chest ached behind the breastbone. “I'm okay. Just give me a moment.”
Alyra grabbed a sheet from her bed and tied it around his injured arm. “I've heard about your powers, but I never believed…I mean, to see the zoana in action…. It's amazing.”
Horace sighed as the pressure dug into his wound. “I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. One day I'm a normal guy, and the next I'm a…I don't know. A freak.”
“You're not a freak!” She brushed a hand through his sweaty hair. “We would be dead if not for what you did. I was so scared. I couldn't control it.”
“You didn't look scared to me. You looked brave, like an angel of vengeance. All you needed was a flaming sword.”
Her laughter was a good sound. One he wanted to hear again. Horace started to close his eyes when a loud crash echoed from outside the room. The front door had been forced open. He stood up, grimacing as the room tilted around him. “I'll take care of it,” he said through gritted teeth. “Barricade the door behind me.”
But Alyra had already retrieved her knife from the dead demon. “No. We're both going out there together.”
“Alyra—”
She opened the door, and Horace had no choice but to go with her. He felt shaky, and the fire of the zoana no longer tingled in his veins. He clenched his fists, willing it to return as he stepped into the sitting area. Bright light shone from the foyer. With Alyra beside him, Horace lifted his good hand, intent on unleashing whatever power he had left on the first thing that walked through the archway. They both sighed in relief when a pair of the Queen's Guard shouldered their way into the room with swords bared.
While the soldiers searched the bedchambers, Horace sat on the arm of a divan. Alyra curled up beside him. “They say people heard horrible noises throughout the palace,” she said.
“Those things made enough racket to wake the dead. What in the Almighty's name were they?”
“I don't know. When they appeared, all I could think of was…”
“Demons,” Horace finished for her.
“Yes. Just like the stories my mother told me when I was little.”
“I've seen the images carved on the walls of the basilica at Arnos. They don't look anything like those creatures.”
She shivered as she pressed against him. More soldiers entered the suite, until the rooms were filled with men in armor. All of them held a weapon ready as if another attack was imminent. Eventually, a flock of royal physicians entered. Horace reclined on the divan and closed his eyes while the doctors worked on him. After a few minutes, the sounds of their voices faded away, and he drifted back to sleep.
“O Sippa, lady of the moon, watch over your city, for we are beset by darkness in the night and need your light to guide our footsteps. Protect us from the evils of the world until we return to the safety and comfort of your breast.”
The alabaster statue of the goddess towered over Byleth as she whispered the supplication in the inner sanctum of the Moon Temple, where only royalty and the high priestess were allowed to enter. Though not as grandiose as the Temple of Amur on the other side of the Street of Gods, this shrine was larger than most palaces. It had been the spiritual heart of the city since its founding, whatever the Sun Cult might choose to believe.
When she was a girl, she hadn't paid much attention to the priestesses or their teachings, which had seemed out of touch with the real world. Yet as she grew older, the gods seemed nearer to her every day, especially the patroness of her city.
Lady goddess, tell me what to do. What advice would you have given my father?
She had been thinking about her father more and more in recent days. After years of hating him for throwing his life away, she finally felt she had begun to understand him. The throne was not as comfortable as it appeared from afar. Almost all the noble Houses had abandoned her over the past few weeks as h
er wedding day approached. Oh, they replied to her overtures for assistance with polite words, but she could read the truth behind the pretty phrases. They had been seduced by the Sun Temple. She was alone except for a handful of viziers and court functionaries.
With a sigh, Byleth bowed to the goddess and turned away. Mother Iltani stood in the doorway. Her bright white robe gleamed like polished alabaster. Though her face was lined with deep wrinkles, her smile was warm and vibrant. “Someone is waiting for you, Majesty,” she said. “In the nave.”
Byleth had known the high priestess of Sippa for most of her life. “Thank you. I'm done here.”
The priestess joined her at the center of the room and took her hands. Mother Iltani's fingers were thin and bony with paper-fine skin, but their grip was still firm. She looked up, and Byleth followed her gaze through the round hole in the ceiling. The three-quarters-full moon shone down on them.
“I've been praying for you, Majesty,” Mother Iltani said. “Right here every night, a prayer to the Silver Lady to deliver you from the forces that threaten our city.”
“I appreciate that. I hope the Lady answers, and soon.”
“She will or she will not. As I told your father many times in this very chamber, it is not for us to command the gods, but to listen and bend to their wishes. That goes for kings and queens as well as for the farmers in their fields and the cooks in the kitchen.”
“And what would you have advised my father if he was in my position?”
Mother Iltani patted Byleth's hands. “That even the tallest tree must bend before the storm, or be broken by its fury.”
But I'm not fighting a storm. I'm battling schemers and plotters who want to steal my throne.
Byleth kissed the priestess's cheek and left the chamber. She found Lord Mulcibar in the temple's main chamber, standing before a marble frieze. “I didn't think I would see you again this night, my lord.”
Mulcibar bowed to her and straightened up slowly. “Forgive me for intruding on Your Majesty's devotions.”
“I was finished anyway. I'm not much for kneeling and praying, even though I could use the divine assistance. What of our new First Sword?”
“I saw him back to his rooms at the palace. He may have celebrated his good fortune a bit too much.”
Byleth caught the evasive sideward glance. “You still don't approve of his promotion.”
“It is not for me to—”
“Forget decorum, Mulcibar. Speak plainly.”
He cleared his throat. “No, I don't believe it was in the best interests.”
“Whose best interest? Horace's or my own?”
“Both. Lord Horace is very powerful, but he's not in full control of his zoana. Furthermore, he doesn't possess the knowledge or political acumen to act as a proper First Sword. Lord Hunzuu—”
“Lord Hunzuu failed to protect his queen.” She lowered her voice as it echoed through the large stone chamber. There was no one else here, but you could never be too careful. “He was given a warrior's death, which was more than he rightfully deserved after the catastrophe in the desert.”
“That much is true. Yet Lord Horace isn't prepared to handle this responsibility. He has no allies and no protection outside of Your Majesty's favor.”
“What about you? I was under the impression that you thought highly of our visitor from across the sea.”
“I do. He is intelligent, thoughtful, and not at all what I imagined a man from the West would be like. However…forgive me, Majesty, but elevating Lord Horace to the zoanii caste will not solve your impending troubles.”
She sighed and rubbed her fingers together. “Am I that obvious, my lord?”
“Only to someone who has known you since birth. Forgive my candor, but your court will never accept Lord Horace as your royal consort, much less their new king. And, if I may, it would only make your situation more untenable.” He bowed his head. “If I have spoken too freely, please accept my sincere apology. But you are my primary concern, Majesty. Your protection and the continuation of your line.”
“Yes, yes. No one is questioning your loyalty, Lord Mulcibar.” She didn't look down at his lame leg, which would have shamed his pride, but she allowed the tilt of her head to convey that she was aware of it. “You've given more than anyone has a right to ask. Have you found out anything new about the crash?”
When they had returned to the city, Byleth charged Lord Mulcibar with discovering the author of the attack. No one knew the city's politics better than her father's trusted vizier.
“Nothing of note, Majesty,” he replied. “I've placed Lord Gilgar's family and acquaintances under surveillance, including his brother. I don't expect to find anything. House Mamaunothos had nothing to gain by Your Majesty's demise and everything to lose.”
She agreed privately. When they had returned from the crash, her first action—after bathing away the stink of sweat and river mud—had been to summon Xantu and force him to submit to a thorough mind-sifting. She'd found no hint of disloyalty in him, nothing that tied him to Gilgar's treachery. In fact, when she had informed him of the events on the riverbank, he had been genuinely enraged that his twin could do such a thing. But she was no closer to understanding why Gilgar would betray her. She had known both brothers since they were children. The treachery was a bitter knife in her breast.
“What about the other nobles?” she asked.
“They are restless, Majesty.”
“A result of naming a savage as my First Sword, without a doubt.”
“Quite possible. But I would have heard if any of the city's major Houses were planning an attempt on this scale.”
She turned to face the frieze. It showed a huge, round moon hanging over the city's skyline. She assumed it was intended to be soothing, but it made her feel lonely. “Forgive me, my lord. We both know who was behind both attacks.”
“You mean the Cult of Amur.”
“Of course. Who else has the means and the audacity to strike at the crown? I'd wager that slug Rimesh was behind it.”
“That is a bold accusation. One that should not be voiced in court without some form of proof. There have already been demonstrations in the public squares, Your Majesty.”
“Riots?” she asked.
“Not as yet, but the temple soldiers do nothing to quell the civil unrest. And so it grows. If you'll heed my counsel, now is not the time for a confrontation.”
“Then what? Shall I ignore that the menarch tried to have me killed?”
“I'm only suggesting that we proceed with care. Allow me to make more inquiries, gather evidence. If the Sun Temple was behind these attacks, I'll find out.”
“Fine.” Byleth wanted to pull out her hair, but instead she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We'll do as you suggest, for now. But time is running short.”
He bowed nearly to his waist. “I will do everything in my power.”
“I know you will. Come to me the moment you learn anything.”
“Of course. And there is one other matter I wished to discuss.” He took a breath. “This is a matter I am loathe to discuss with Your Majesty, but I feel I must.”
She didn't like how this sounded, but she nodded for him to continue. “Go on, my lord.”
“It concerns Lord Astaptah, Majesty.”
Byleth lifted her right eyebrow to let him know he was treading on dangerous ground.
Mulcibar cleared his throat, which turned into a choking cough. When he recovered, he said in a reedy voice, “Majesty, I fear you might have entered into an unsafe arrangement with his lordship. Please forgive an old man, but I swore a sacred oath to your father, to watch over you and protect you in all matters. I clearly failed in regard to Lord Gilgar, but I do not wish to fail again.”
Byleth studied her oldest counselor. How much did he know? Or was this all based on suspicion? What would he do if he learned the truth about her pact with Astaptah? “I appreciate your concern, my lord, but my dealings with Lord Astaptah do no
t fall under your purview.”
“As you say, Majesty.”
As the old nobleman started to leave, two soldiers in royal uniform entered the temple. They knelt when they spotted her. “Majesty!” one said.
Byleth opened a pathway to her zoana as she strode toward them. Since the crash, she had lost much of her trust in her servants, seeing a potential assassin in every face. “What is it?”
“The palace,” the soldier said. He was sweating profusely. “There's been an attack.”
“On the royal residence?” Lord Mulcibar asked. Byleth noticed that the old man had nonchalantly stepped between her and the soldiers. The gesture was touching.
“No, my lord,” the soldier answered. “In the First Sword's rooms.”
The Iron Desert surrounded them, an ocean of sand and scattered stones with a few clumps of scrub brush clinging to life. The sun's blazing rays reflected off the white dunes. The company marched through the wastes in a loose line, double file for the most part, but the officers showed little inclination to enforce formation discipline.
Jirom wiped his brow with the back of his forearm.
I thought I was done with soldiering when I was captured. The gods must be laughing their asses off.
Irritated and thirsty, he called for his platoon to tighten into a diamond formation. The dog-soldiers squinted at him as if gauging his seriousness, but they moved. Czachur hustled to take the point position. Jirom watched them with a critical eye, ready with a verbal tongue-lashing.
“Attention! Make way!”
A cavalry regiment rode up from the rear of the column. Kapikul Hazael rode in their midst, his dark eyes scanning the troops. A junior officer stood up in his stirrups. “Who leads this squad?”
Jirom lifted his chin. “I do.”
“The kapikul wants to know why these soldiers are in assault formation.” The officer kept talking before Jirom could answer. “Assemble them in double file at once!”
