by Jon Sprunk
He had things he wanted to say to her as well, about how his feelings for her were changing, becoming stronger, but her expression was so serious he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. “Of course.”
She took him by the arm and led him out to the garden courtyard. Once they were outside, she pulled him to a bench secluded among a cluster of tall frond bushes, and they sat.
“This is a bit clandestine,” he said, hoping a little teasing would ease the dire expression she wore.
“Horace, there's something I have to tell you.”
“I'm not going to accept them,” he said. “The challenges. They can rot for all I care.”
Alyra nodded but did not lose her earnest appearance. “That's good, but that's not it. I came to Akeshia for a reason.”
“Came? I thought you were captured and enslaved. That's what you told me.”
She glanced down at her hands, clasped together in her lap. “That's what everyone believes. I've been telling that story for so long that sometimes even I believe it, but the truth is that I chose to come here.”
He batted away a frond that was tickling the top of his head. “You're Arnossi, the same as me. Why would you choose to come here? Didn't you know what they would do to you?”
“I was counting on it.”
“I don't understand. You wanted to be a slave?”
“I know that must sound crazy to you.”
“Crazy isn't the word. More like baying-at-the-moon mad. Why would you do that?”
Alyra looked him in the eye. “Because I had a mission. I was sent here by the government of Nemedia to spy on the Akeshians and disrupt their plans—if they had any—for attack. So that's what I've been doing for the past few years, spying on the queen as her handmaiden.”
Horace opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His voice was paralyzed by her revelation. Finally, he croaked, “So all this…being a slave, it was just an act?”
“Yes and no. I was truly a slave, but few people knew my real purpose.”
Horace took a deep breath as he tried to make sense of this news. “And all this time I thought I was really getting to know you, to understand you. I thought…”
“You do know me, Horace.” She touched his hand, but gently, as if afraid to spook him. “What I told you about my family is true for the most part. My father was the governor at Marico. He died when the Akeshians attacked, but my mother and I escaped. We found safety in Nemedia, and that's where I found a way to strike back at our oppressors.”
“So you became a spy and a slave.”
“We were counting on the fact that slaves have a lot of freedom to move around and be places where free people would be questioned.”
“That's why you were angry when I freed you. I took away your invisible hat.”
She frowned. “My what?”
“It's from a children's story about a magic hat that made a little boy invisible so he could get past his enemies unseen. That's what slavery was to you, a way to move around the royal court undetected. I…I had no idea.”
“I know. I forgave you.”
“You did?”
“Yes, but not until afterward.”
He tried to smile, but he was still reeling. This changed everything.
Am I part of her scheme now, too? What if the queen finds out? She'll lock us both away forever or make us fall on our swords.
Alyra stared into his eyes. “Horace, I've never trusted anyone with this before. You could have me arrested if you wanted. No one could blame you for not knowing.”
“I'd never do that,” he said and realized the words were true as they left his mouth. He wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel that love from another person. It had been so long. He found himself babbling, trying to take his mind off his feelings. “I don't know much about Nemedia, but I've learned enough about Akeshia that I can see why someone would want a spy in their court. When we were flying over Omikur, Byleth unleashed a storm against the defenders. It was horrible. Entire buildings collapsed as the lightning—”
“Did you say she unleashed a storm?”
“Yes. Just like the storm that appeared over Erugash, but worse, if you can imagine that.”
He could see Alyra wasn't listening anymore. Her face was turned down, staring at the patio flagstones. “What is it?”
She didn't answer for several heartbeats, though her face scrunched up like she was arguing with herself. “While you were away, I went down into the tunnels under the palace and entered the abode of Lord Astaptah.”
A chill ran through Horace, driving away the heat of the day. “Alyra! That was a huge risk. I don't think I'd want to cross him.”
“And you don't know half the story about him. But I had to know what he does down there. I found tunnels filled with strange servants.”
“Strange how?” he asked.
“They wore thick robes even though it was hot as blazes down there, and there was something about their skin. Their complexion was too…gray, almost like corpses. Anyway, that's not the important part. I also saw a metal contraption down there. I don't know what to call it, but it was big. Bigger than the statue of King Daalak in Yeznudin Square.”
Horace had never heard of King Daalak and had no idea how big his statue was, but he got the point. “Go on. What was it?”
“I don't know. It looked like a combination of metal and sorcery, and I think I saw…this is going to sound insane, but I think I saw a tiny storm brewing inside it.”
Horace sat back in the bench. From what little he knew about the chaos storms, they were wild, unpredictable aspects of nature. Yet if Astaptah had the ability to create them…
Was that what I witnessed over Omikur? A man-made storm?
“So what are you going to do?” he asked. “Tell your people about it?”
“I already did.”
Alyra told him about a meeting with her superior—a fellow named Night. “He didn't seem very interested in the device,” she said. “But I don't know. I feel like there was a lot he wasn't telling me, which isn't surprising. He has a mysterious reputation.”
Horace didn't like him already. “Did he give you any advice on how to proceed?”
“Yes, unfortunately. He told me to focus on my mission.”
“That's it? That's all he said.”
Alyra bit her lower lip. “He's not a man of many words. But no matter what he said, I know what I have to do. I have to destroy that thing. If there's even a chance that Lord Astaptah and the queen can control the chaos storms, I have to make sure they can't use that power. It would change everything. No army would be able to stand against them.”
Horace thought of the crusaders inside the town. Power over the storms would change the entire nature of warfare. On the other hand, he understood why the queen would pursue such a weapon. She was trapped by her enemies, soon to be locked into a marriage she didn't want and possibly killed as soon as her new husband took control of her city. Didn't she have a right to defend herself by any means possible? “You're right. A weapon like that is too powerful for anyone to control. What I can do to help?”
She stared at him for a long moment and then launched herself at him. He sat rigid as her arms tightened around his neck, feeling the softness of her bosom against his chest, and then he returned the embrace.
She murmured into his shoulder, “Thank you, Horace. That means a lot to me.”
He inhaled the scent of her hair and tried not to think about the past, about anything except this moment, which felt like it could last forever. Too soon for him, Alyra backed away and composed herself. Then he heard the footsteps approaching.
Captain Pomuthus arrived with a narrow wooden case about four feet long. He stopped at military attention and presented the case. “This just arrived. From the palace.”
At a look from Alyra, Horace flipped open the lid. Inside was a long, curved sword. The weapon was a gorgeous piece of art with intricate gold inlay along the scabbard and hilt, all poli
shed to a high shine. Horace was running his fingers over the cross guard when he realized where he'd seen the blade before. It was Lord Hunzuu's sword.
He yanked his hand back as an image of the former First Sword lying in a pool of his own blood burst in his brain. “Get this out of here.”
Alyra placed a hand on his arm. “This is tradition.”
“I don't care what it—” Horace bit off his words as Pomuthus produced a scroll tied with a scarlet ribbon. He thought it was another challenge until he noticed the seal stamped into the blood-red wax. A crown over a full moon flanked by two men with dogs’ heads. The royal seal.
Horace took the scroll and broke it open. He read the message feeling this wasn't going to be good news—a summons to another war council or a late-night meeting with the queen—but it was worse than he imagined.
“What is it?” Alyra asked.
“It's Lord Mulcibar.” Horace lowered the scroll to his lap. “He's missing.”
Horace slowed his pace as he tried to make out the lettering written on the side of the building. He sounded out the words under his breath.
Vashidom. No, that's the gymnasium.
Motioning to the others, he kept walking. The sword—the First Sword's weapon of office—felt strange on his hip. He would have left it at home except Alyra insisted he wear it in public. “You have to look the part,” she said as he dressed to go out, “if you want others to see you as the First Sword.”
Not exactly feeling like a First anything, he walked the streets of Erugash in search of Lord Mulcibar. He had already been to the vizier's home where he discovered from the chief steward that Mulcibar had gone to visit the city archives yesterday afternoon but never returned. Now Horace was heading to the archives to see what he could find out. He had brought four of his bodyguards along, leaving the rest home with Alyra, although she protested long and loud that he needed the protection more than she did. She had a point, but he insisted anyway. He worried about her safety, even when she didn't.
That woman thinks she's immortal, but I'm not going to let happen to her what happened to—
Horace bit down on his tongue and renewed his focus on the buildings around him. Alyra was fine.
Until what? Until you run back to Arnos and leave her here to face the queen and the court alone?
He considered Pomuthus, who walked beside him. The veteran with the jagged scar down his face rarely said anything outside his official duties, and Horace realized he knew next to nothing about this man who was sworn to defend his life. “How long were you with the Queen's Guard, Captain?”
“Seven years, my lord. The last two as watch commander.”
“And before that?”
“I served in the Sixth Royal Legion.”
Horace nodded as he scanned the nearest buildings. “See any action?”
“We were part of an excursion into Etonia about ten years ago. After that I was offered a post at the palace.”
“And now you're here with me. Tell me, Pomuthus. Does the idea of protecting a foreigner bother you?”
“From my experience, outlanders are the same as anyone else. They eat, shit, fuck, and die. My lord.” The captain pointed to a broad building at the end of the street. “I think that's it.”
They strode to the structure. Flambeaux flickered on either side of a tall bronze door, its surface tarnished with verdigris. Pomuthus rapped with a heavy fist. The sound of his knocking echoed down the street. Horace looked over his shoulder. He could see the palace above the rooftops. He and Alyra had talked about the message as he dressed to go out. It was his impression that the queen wanted him to turn out her personal guard and scour the city, but Alyra had argued for a subtler approach. “If he was killed, his body is likely floating down the Typhon,” she'd said.
“We shouldn't think that way,” he had responded as he belted on a crimson surcoat emblazoned with the golden sigil of his rank.
“No, we have to think that way, Horace. After the attack on you, and now Lord Mulcibar's disappearance, it's clear that someone is trying to eliminate the queen's allies.”
So he'd begun the search without involving the Queen's Guard. Alyra's suggestion that he begin at Mulcibar's home had been a good one. Now he hoped to pin down the time of the nobleman's disappearance. The door opened, and a slight man in a loose tunic and woolen skirt looked out. His face was wrinkled like old leather, his eyebrows and the halo of hair around the edge of his scalp just the merest puffs of white. “The archives are closed,” he said in a wispy voice.
Horace made a small bow. “I am Horace, First Sword of the Queen.”
The old man glanced at the guards surrounding Horace before he bent his head a few inches. “What do you want, my lord?”
When Horace asked if Lord Mulcibar had been there, the old man frowned. “These are the royal archives, not a social club.”
The archivist actually looked as if he was going to close the door. Horace put out his hand, just wanting to ask another question, but Pomuthus shoved his shoulder against the bronze valve. The door yawned wider, and the old man staggered back as if he'd been kicked by a mule. Horace grimaced. “I'm sorry, sir!”
The archivist retreated another step, but there was no fear in his gaze, only anger. Horace held out both hands. “Forgive me. The queen sent us to determine the whereabouts of Lord Mulcibar. He has gone missing, and this is the last place his servants knew him to be. Please, did you see the vizier yesterday?”
He got all that out in broken Akeshian while the old man glared, but when he finished, the archivist gave a terse nod. His reply was long and detailed, and more than once Horace had to ask him to repeat himself. Finally, Horace bowed his head and gestured for his guards to follow him out. Once back on the street, Horace took a minute to consider what he'd learned. Lord Mulcibar had indeed been to the archives yesterday. In fact, he was a regular visitor. The archivist estimated that Mulcibar arrived an hour after midday and stayed until evening vespers. He himself had seen the nobleman and his manservant to the door.
Standing on the cooling pavestones, Horace eyed the homes lining the avenue, all of them elegant manses of stone and brick with their own walled enclosures. Had anyone seen anything out of the ordinary?
Horace pointed to a pair of his guardsmen. “You two go door to door and ask if anyone saw something strange last night around sunset.”
The two guards saluted before jogging to the nearest gate. Horace took Pomuthus and the remaining guard on a slow walk down the center of the street in the direction of Mulcibar's home. He felt like he should be looking for something, like a shepherd tracking a lost sheep, but he was no tracker and he had nothing to go on.
If he left in the evening, the sun would be going down. The light would be dim and the street almost empty, like it is now. Where would he have gone?
Horace tried to imagine he was in danger. What would he do? Approach one of these fine houses for help? Not likely. Calling for the watch also wasn't an option. The idea of a militia that patrolled the streets, keeping the peace, wasn't embraced in Erugash. Instead, those who could afford it hired their own guards. Everyone else remained behind locked doors until morning or took their chances.
Horace paused at an intersection of two avenues. The old bookkeeper also told him what Lord Mulcibar had been reading yesterday. The reply had surprised him. The tomes dealt with the Annunciation, the era of ancient history when—according to Akeshian legend—the gods came down from the stars to rule directly over the world. Zoanii meant, literally, “children of the stars,” and zoana, their term for sorcery, could be translated as “starlight.” Yet, though the terms “star child” and “starlight” had a poetic ring, what little Horace knew suggested that this mythical time had been marked with strife and terror. It seemed that the people of this land had not enjoyed the reign of their pagan deities. What had possessed Mulcibar to take up studying those old myths?
After a few minutes, his guardsmen returned with a negative report. No o
ne had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Horace cursed under his breath. This was getting him nowhere. He ordered the two guards to walk the route back to Mulcibar's home, look for anything amiss, and then report back to his manor to check on Alyra.
“Where are we going, my lord?” Pomuthus asked.
Horace was about to say back to the archives to see if they could discover anything else that might help the search, but then a gleam of pale light flashed from the gutter. He went over to the deep stone trench and bent down. Something was stuck in the channel, half-submerged in the dirty water and night soil. Holding his breath against the odors rising to meet him, he fished it out.
The silver square hung on a chain. By the moonlight Horace could make out the design of an eight-sided star surrounded by squiggly lines engraved on the obverse side. He didn't know what it meant, but he recognized the medallion at once. Mulcibar had worn it on the day of the flying ship crash.
Horace wiped the medallion on the hem of his robe and stuck it in a pocket. Then he turned to his guard captain. “To the palace. Right now.”
They walked quickly through the vacant streets as the shadows lengthened and the cover of night fell over the city. Horace glanced over his shoulder every few strides as a feeling came over him, the feeling that he was being watched. He needed to converse with the queen about how she wanted to proceed.
God be good. Let her dismiss me from this whole affair.
As the thought crossed his mind, Horace was stabbed with guilt. Lord Mulcibar had been kind while all the other nobles shunned him. The old man deserved his best effort. Gritting his teeth, Horace hurried his steps.
They ran into a patrol of temple soldiers as they crossed an empty plaza. Horace's stomach dropped at the sight of twenty yellow uniforms, but he straightened his shoulders and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword as he walked forward with purpose. The officer at the head of the platoon raised a hand. “A moment, my lord.”
Horace was made to show his papers indicating his rank and authority to be in this part of the city. As the temple man examined his documents by torchlight, Horace became more and more exasperated. “Is everything in order?” he asked after several minutes of waiting.
