Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One)

by Jon Sprunk

  The officer handed back the papers. “It seems to be. My lord. I wasn't aware that Byleth had promoted a new First Sword.”

  Horace blinked at the soldier's casual use of the queen's name. The zoanii, especially royalty, were treated as living deities by the people of this land. “Yes. Now if you have no further questions, I'll be about my business.”

  He tried to use the imperious inflection he'd often heard from other zoanii, but it sounded bizarre coming from his own mouth. The officer's lips bent downward in a stern frown, but he waved them along. Horace strode away before he said something he would regret.

  The palace gates were a welcome sight. Horace and his guards were questioned briefly and their persons searched before being admitted, and then were stopped again at an inner gate for a repeat of the procedure. The palace grounds swarmed with soldiers. Horace looked around, wondering if there had been a problem, but Pomuthus bent close and said, “They've been on alert since the night you and Lady Alyra were attacked. All who come in or come out are handled like this. Even the lords.”

  At last, they were admitted into the palace proper. Horace ordered his guards to wait outside as he entered the atrium alone. He hadn't gotten farther than a few steps into the huge chamber when a servant in a long, white robe approached him. Horace asked to see the queen, adding that it was very important. The servant bowed and bid him to wait, and then disappeared through a side door. Several other people stood around in small groups. By their clothing and bearing, they were clearly of the upper class, possibly minor zoanii or persons with political connections. He was still uncertain about the strata of Akeshian society and how it all fit together.

  After a few minutes, Chancellor Unagon appeared. His bald pate shone in the light of the many oil lamps hanging from the ceiling as he hastened across the wide chamber. “Pardon me, my lord,” he said when he arrived before Horace and made a short bow. “I was not made aware of your arrival until just now. How may I be of service?”

  “I need to speak with the queen.”

  “I understand, my lord. Please pardon me.” The chancellor made another bow, a little lower this time. “But Her Majesty is not able to receive visitors at the moment. May I suggest that you make an appointment for tomorrow?”

  Horace looked around to make sure no one else could overhear. The nearest person was fifty feet away, but still he lowered his voice. “Please, if you could inquire. This is very important.”

  The chancellor had the good grace, or the proper training, to appear embarrassed as he shook his head. “I must beg your pardon, my lord, but I have explicit instructions. Her Majesty is not to be disturbed at this time.” He leaned a little closer. “She is in conference with an official from the Temple of the Sun. I should fear for my head if I were to interrupt.”

  Horace rubbed his eyes. He wasn't getting anywhere. “All right. But I need to see her as early as possible.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I will send a messenger in the morning with the arrangements.”

  Horace turned back toward the front entrance. He was suddenly exhausted, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Mulcibar needed his help. He started toward the front entrance when a party of four men intercepted him. The men were as different as any he could imagine. Two of them had skin like beaten copper, one with a thick beard and the other sporting only a well-trimmed mustache that curled down at the ends. The third man was taller than the others, with broad shoulders and an ample belly. His skin was burnished ebony, even darker than Jirom's. The fourth man was so pale he might have passed for an Arnossi, except for his hair, which clung to his head in oily black curls. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood between him and the exit.

  Horace's hands tightened into fists. He didn't see any weapons on them, but after the events of the last few days he wasn't taking any chances. He reached for his power. It awakened instantly, slipping through his veins like a shot of fine whiskey. He held onto it, ready for anything.

  The light-skinned man spoke first. “Su shoma'akekalata hisu.”

  The language of the phrase was so formalized, it made translation difficult. Yet the man's tone dripped with hostility.

  “I don't understand,” Horace replied.

  The large man with the round stomach responded in a deep baritone. “He makes you a challenge here in the queen's hall, under the eyes of the gods.”

  Horace frowned as he looked at each of the men in turn. “All of you want to fight me?”

  The light-skinned man stepped forward and jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “Only me. Do you accept?”

  Horace studied the man more closely. His tunic was made of fine linen and cut to the current Akeshian style with wide sleeves and a narrow collar. “You seem to know who I am, but who are you?”

  While the others looked on with hard stares, the big man responded if as by rote. “He is Puzummu of the House Arkhandun, lord of Ghirune, defender of—”

  Horace threw up his hand to cut the man off and noticed that three of the four men—including this Lord Puzummu—drew back as if afraid he might lash out at them. Only the big man had not moved, though the hint of a smile creased his lips.

  Horace took a deep breath. He was tired of being pushed around, tired of being afraid, and the disappearance of Mulcibar had grated on his already-frayed nerves. “Fine,” he said. “I accept. Name the time and place.”

  “The day after tomorrow at sunrise,” the big man intoned. “In the Canathenaic.”

  “Why wait?” Horace asked, his anger flaring even as a part of his mind urged him to reconsider. “Why not tomorrow?”

  The three smaller men looked back and forth in confusion. The big man smiled at Horace with his teeth showing. “That is agreeable.”

  “Tomorrow at dawn. Do I need a second?”

  Their looks of bewilderment increased, and even the big man had difficulty with the concept at first. “No,” he answered finally. “Here in Akeshia, all duels are fought only by the challenger and the challenged. A duel between zoanii is a sacred thing, and to interfere means death.”

  The more Horace heard, the less he liked it.

  I've already accepted. There's no backing out now, not that I would give these bastards the satisfaction.

  “I understand,” he said. “Now get out of my way.”

  Horace started walking straight ahead, and the men hurried to step out of his way. By the time he reached his guards, he had made up his mind to go home. As much as he wanted to find Mulcibar tonight, he had no leads and no help from the palace, and now he had the specter of a duel hanging over his head.

  As he exited the palace grounds, the haunting feeling of being watched returned. He glanced around, but there was no one there. Even the rising sickle of the horned moon seemed to mock him.

  Byleth played with the rings on her fingers as she paced across her parlor. At the end of each circuit she stopped and looked to the water clock dripping on the shelf between the bronze nudes of the Earth Mother and Ishara, the Lady of Love. The hour was getting late, and still there was no word on Lord Mulcibar. She started to chew on a fingernail. Her world was crumbling around her. In two days it would be Tammuris. Two days until she lost her freedom, unless she did something to stop it.

  She had tried everything she could think of to put off the wedding. She had dithered and stalled, claimed poor omens and improper astrological alignments, and even outright refused, but the priests remained adamant. And so her desperation grew by the day. She stopped praying that Astaptah would come through with a solution in time. Every time she sent for an update, the same message would return: Patience. I am making progress.

  Yesterday, she had ordered the messenger flogged and sent back to show his bloody back to the vizier, but the answer hadn't changed.

  A chime rang from the ceiling. Byleth stood up straight and smoothed the folds of her damask gown, which was more demure than her usual attire but she was trying to make an impression. She signaled to Aisa to admit her visitor, and then chang
ed her mind about standing and reclined on a plush divan as footsteps echoed in the admitting chamber. The slave-girl returned with Menarch Rimesh. The priest looked extremely warm in his long robe of yellow, but no sign of perspiration glistened on his smooth head. His priestly tattoos glowed crimson and gold in the light slanting in through the large windows behind her.

  “Majesty,” he said with a slight bow.

  “Menarch, please sit down. I thank you for answering my request. Can I offer you refreshment?”

  She gestured to the side table where wine bottles were displayed alongside bowls of fresh fruit.

  “No thank you.” He sat on the edge of a cushioned chair. “I would rather get directly to the reason for this meeting.”

  He could have been a stone for all his face revealed. Byleth accepted a piece of dew melon from Aisa and took a small bite. She considered allowing a drop of juice to trickle down her chin but dismissed the idea. The priest would not be swayed by her sex appeal. “I called you here to discuss the upcoming event.”

  “The feast of Tammuris,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “The temple has been working on the details of the event with your court officials. If you require an itinerary—”

  “I require it not to happen at all.”

  Rimesh smiled. It was a tepid smile, the kind reserved for the very old and the very young. “No one can stop the turning of the days. Not even a queen.”

  I would love to summon a few of my less-savory guards and show you exactly what a queen can do, you swine.

  She put on her most charming smile. It had seduced men of great station and wealth since she was a girl. “Let the feast come and go, dear Menarch, but remove the demand that I marry. Just for this year, and I will pour so much gold into the coffers of your temple that you'll be able to gild Amur's holy image from head to toe.”

  His eyes narrowed a trifle. “The priesthood of the Sun Lord does not want for treasure or prestige, Majesty. The emperor's gifts are both frequent and ample, certainly dwarfing whatever largesse Erugash could manage.”

  She swallowed the fruit to give herself time to consider her next words. “Perhaps. It is known far and near that your sect enjoys the emperor's favor and the status that comes with it, but surely it must chafe.”

  He started to shake his head but stopped himself. “How do you mean?”

  Byleth shrugged, allowing the front of her gown to gape open just a sliver. “Being at the behest of the imperial whim. The gods did not intend for men, even the mightiest of rulers, to reign over the houses of the holy. But if you were to grant my humble request, your order would find a most welcome home here in my city, free from burdensome laws and edicts.”

  “Majesty, allow me to be blunt?”

  “By all means.”

  “We already control your city. The devotees of the Order of the Crimson Flame here in Erugash outnumber your court, and the temple soldiers are better armed and more experienced than any levies you have currently inside the city. Furthermore, on the eve of the Tammuris you will wed Prince Tatannu, and then we shall have everything we desire, a return to the old ways when your kind knew their place in the natural order—as servants of the empire, not its masters.”

  She felt the blush of heat running across her cheeks but refused to acknowledge the shame his words had inflicted. “And you would place yourself at the head of this new order, Menarch?”

  “Our Lord Amur presides at the head, and all must serve His divine word or perish.”

  “All you say well may be true, but as a queen and the daughter of Rathammon et'Urdrammor, I can tell you that things change. Your well-laid plans may turn to ash before they bear fruit. Accept my offer and have the surety of a lasting bond between my House and your temple. Who knows? Perhaps someday Erugash will be the heart of Amur's worship, the envy of all other cities in the world.”

  Rimesh stood up. “Of that, Majesty, I have no doubt. We know the iniquity that lurks in the dark places of this city.”

  Byleth's heart nearly stopped at his words. Did the Sun Cult know about Astaptah and the storm engine? How could they? Unless they had a spy in her inner circle…

  “And we know that if you are not the architect of the evil dwelling within Erugash, you surely have done nothing to root it out, and for that you will someday face Lord Amur's judgment. But until that time, the Temple of the Sun will seek out the wicked wherever they hide and deliver the proper justice.”

  Byleth stood up slowly, reaching out with her zoana as she got to her feet. Just a trickle. If her words could not convince him, then she would change his mind another way. She sent the power to burrow into the menarch's subconscious but frowned as she encountered resistance. She pushed harder, but her effort crumpled against what felt like an iron shield around his thoughts.

  Rimesh reached up and pulled a chain out of his collar. The metal circle dangling from his fingers was covered in a spiral of dense runes. Byleth could feel her power ebbing away.

  Zoahadin.

  “A wise man takes every precaution,” he said.

  As she released her zoana, she was struck by his physical presence. Not since she was a small girl had she been intimidated by a man because of his size. He could probably kill her with his bare hands. He took a step toward her and then turned toward the door. “Good night, Byleth.”

  After he was gone, she broke into silent tears. The order to have him seized and executed on the spot hovered on the tip of her tongue, but they went unspoken as she collapsed on the divan. It wouldn't do any good. He had won. Her fate was sealed.

  She looked up to the bust of her father set in a niche beside her household gods.

  I've failed you, and soon our line will be extinguished by the priests you labored your entire life to bring down.

  Idle thoughts entered her mind, of ending her life tonight to rob her foes of the pleasure of watching her brought to heel—a subtle venom mixed into her favorite vintage, and then never-ending slumber. She envisioned herself entombed beside her father's mastaba as the tears slid down her cheeks. Is this my fate? To claw and fight my way to this point, and then have it all taken away? Is this what you foresaw, Father?

  She wiped her face with a pillow and called for her protector.

  Lord Xantu entered the chamber from a side door. “You heard?” she asked as he stood before her.

  “Yes, Majesty. I wanted to rip the pig's heart out of his chest.”

  “If only it was that simple.”

  “He could disappear. No one could prove I had anything to do with it.”

  Byleth smiled, wanting to laugh but too troubled to do so as she considered her shrinking list of options. “Barring some miracle, I must marry the Nisusi prince.”

  Xantu dropped to one knee at her feet. “Majesty, I beg you. Flee the city and travel to one of your remote holdings. Or take refuge in Haran. I will follow you anywhere, in this world or the next.”

  Overcome by his display, she touched his shoulder and bid him to rise. “You know I cannot. This is my fate. I accept that, and so must you.”

  “I will not!” he growled as he stood up. His face was contorted into a purple mask. “I will not stand by and watch this charade. You are a queen and—”

  She shushed him with a smile. “You must. That is my command and my wish. You will make your peace with your new king. Go to him now and swear your everlasting fealty. Do this for me.”

  He stared at her for a long moment and then bowed low. Turning so fast his cloak billowed behind him, he strode out of her chamber, leaving her alone once again.

  The clamor sounded like thunder rolling out in one long, continuous boom. Horace looked up at the wooden ceiling and tried to imagine the hundreds of stomping feet above his head, but he was too lost in his thoughts to focus on anything external.

  He stood alone in a long underground chamber where the gladiators prepared for their bouts. Wooden benches lined the walls. The floor was strewn with sawdust. Faint beams of
morning light filtered through the cracks in the gate at the top of the ramp before him. In a few minutes, that gate would open, and then he would fight another man to the death.

  He hadn't been nervous on his way over, but now that he was here a layer of sweat was forming across his forehead and under his arms. The words of the Prophet came to him. Whoever takes a life shall forever more be tainted. All hands will be turned against him and all doors will be shut to him, and he will know the meaning of despair.

  He rocked his head from side to side to loosen the tight muscles in his neck. The cool weight of Lord Mulcibar's medallion bumped against his chest under his clothes. He'd decided to wear it for luck, even if it hadn't been particularly lucky for Mulcibar. He had returned to the nobleman's manor in the hours before dawn, only to find it locked up tight and no one answering the gate bell.

  Wood creaked on old hinges as the gate opened, spilling daylight into the dank chamber. The roar of the crowd surged, drowning out everything else. Horace took a deep breath and started walking. Sand crunched under his sandals as he got to the top of the ramp. The pit of the arena was a vast oval, open to the morning sky. Tiered bleachers rose behind a stone wall.

  Horace's stomach tightened when he saw the crowd of people, shouting and screaming and stamping their feet. He thought this would be a private duel, but evidently word had gotten out.

  I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It's not every day people get to see the queen's favorite pet fight for his life.

  He looked for Alyra and found her on the lowest row of seats. Surrounded by a sea of clapping, stomping citizens, she looked like she was about to cry. She hadn't reacted well to the news. In fact, he'd been shocked when she announced she was coming to the duel, despite his protestations.

  Seeing her in the stands only made him realize how stupid he'd been. What was he fighting for? His honor? It didn't exist, not here and not back home anymore either. For the queen? Horace looked over Alyra's head to the covered box where Byleth sat with half a dozen of her court. The queen was leaning against a younger man in a bright-green tunic, smiling at whatever he was saying into her ear and not paying any attention to the spectacle below her. Horace released the breath he'd been holding without realizing it. What did he owe her? His life? His freedom? No, she might have the power to have him imprisoned or killed, but she didn't own him. If he was going to fight, he would have to do it for himself and by himself. Then Byleth glanced down and a look of sorrow flashed across her eyes. She blinked and it was gone, replaced once more by a mask of cool confidence.