by Jon Sprunk
They arrived at a flight of steps. Alyra started up, but Horace hesitated, suddenly not feeling well. He put a hand on his chest. His heart was pounding. He looked to Alyra, so beautiful in the ethereal light. Now he had something to lose again, and it scared him to death.
“Horace?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He cleared his throat. “I'm fine. Let's go.”
They caught up with Lord Astaptah at the top of the stairs. The vizier stood at the entry to a broad hallway with his head cocked slightly to one side, as if he were listening intently. Horace and Alyra stepped up beside him without saying anything. Horace looked about, trying to determine their position inside the temple. Colorful frescoes decorated the walls and arched ceiling, illuminated by glowing orbs on bronze sconces. They were probably on the ground floor of the main temple structure, but the place was huge. Then he heard something. The distant beat of a drum. He held his breath and strained to hear more. High-pitched notes danced in the air. Pipes, perhaps, but it was definitely music.
They passed a side corridor, down which Horace saw a high oriel window. By the hazy orange cast of the light coming in, it was almost sunset. Astaptah stopped on the threshold of a large chamber. They had reached the temple's grand atrium. A cluster of temple guards stood beside a gushing marble fountain in the center of the chamber, with two red-robed priests in their midst.
Astaptah held up a black cube about the size of a chicken egg. Its sides gleamed with a mirror finish. Horace felt something emanating from it, like a front of cold air, but for some reason it made him sweat. He wanted to ask what it was, but Astaptah threw the black cube into the chamber before he got the chance. It landed at the feet of the soldiers and exploded in a cloud of inky smoke. Tendrils of black shadow slithered out of the cloud to wrap around the legs of the temple guards. Their yells of surprise echoed off the high ceiling as they were pulled into the smoke, where much thrashing and an eerie, sibilant hissing was heard.
Horace started to take a step inside the chamber, but he froze when the nearest Order sorcerer launched twin orbs of orange flame toward him. At the same time, the other sorcerer jabbed the air with a finger, and a line of pure white frost shot across the chamber. Acting out of instinct, Horace summoned his power and formed the emptiness of the Shinar into a hasty barrier in front of them. The fires and the icy ray struck at the same time, battering against the invisible bulwark. Smoke seeped around the edges, and spots of frost formed on the outer shell, but the barrier held.
“Push through!” Astaptah shouted. He held something else in his fist, but Horace couldn't see what it was.
Not sure what the vizier meant, Horace thrust out with both hands. To his surprise, the barrier scuttled a few inches farther into the room. The black smoke remained, cloaking the majority of the atrium.
Alyra reached around his shoulder to point out one of the Red Robes sprinting toward the eastern end of the atrium. “Over there!”
Horace ground his teeth together and attempted to separate the power maintaining his shield into two flows. It was something he had practiced with Mulcibar, though not with much success. Expecting another failure, he was amazed when the zoana divided into two channels. The barrier shook but held together while Horace shaped the second flow into the first thing he thought of—a rope. A lasso of flames lashed across the chamber from his open hand like a striking serpent. The sorcerer, now almost to the wide doorway leading to the sanctum, turned and put up both hands, palms facing outward. Horace saw the counterspell before it landed and turned his left hand in a small circle. The fiery rope slipped past the sorcerer's outstretched hands and wrapped around his neck.
How did I do that?
He was amazed that he was performing miracles that had been impossible for him just weeks ago. On the other hand, a growing unease lodged in his chest every time he tapped into these strange powers. His father had drummed into him from birth the concept that nothing was free, that a man could only truly rely upon those things he sweated and bled over. The sense that there was a terrible doom poised over his head was stronger than ever.
Just let me get Alyra and the queen to safety. Then I'll accept whatever I have coming without complaint.
Working by instinct, Horace tugged on the blazing cord. The sorcerer stumbled forward, smoke rising from around his neck and both hands as he tried to pull the magical rope away. Horace jerked again, and the sorcerer fell on his face hard enough to knock himself out.
Horace let the fiery cord evaporate with a sigh, and panic seized him when the barrier fell as well. But Astaptah pushed past him into the chamber, waving away the lingering smoke. Some of the soldiers were groaning and shaking their heads where they lay; a couple weren't moving at all. The other sorcerer knelt on the floor, groaning as his hands hovered over something small protruding from his stomach. Alyra ran up and kicked him in the head, and the sorcerer slumped over.
Horace hurried over. “You promised you would stay behind—”
He paused when she plucked the small object from the fallen magician and held it up. It was a long dart of silver metal. “It's zoahadin,” she said. “I had some friends make me a few of these.”
Horace kept his distance from the potent throwing dart as he looked around the chamber. Four large doorways exited the atrium in the cardinal directions.
“The ceremony will be on the west terrace,” Astaptah said.
Alyra looked to the ceiling. “That's three stories above us.”
“Yes. And every approach will be guarded by members of the Order. The ceremony has begun. Do what needs to be done.”
“What about you?” Horace asked.
“I will stop anyone else from interfering. Go now if you wish to save the queen.”
The vizier left them, heading across the atrium with long strides. Horace rubbed his hands on his tunic. His palms were tacky with sweat. He had assumed they would be confronting the priests together. The thought of going alone was much less palatable.
I could walk out of here, maybe even escape the city and have a chance at getting my life back. Or I can roll the bones.
He looked to the soldiers scattered across the marble floor. More would die because of him, because of his decision. Their blood would be on his hands, and in the end it might all turn out to be meaningless anyway.
Alyra asked, “Are you ready?”
He knew the answer as he faced the massive doorway to the west. He'd spent the last couple years running away—from his pain, his responsibilities, his future. If he was going to die today, he wanted it to be while he was running toward something. He clasped Alyra's hand, a little harder than he intended, but she squeezed back. They left the chamber together.
More than a hundred aristocrats arrayed in silk and glittering diadems crowded the western terrace of the Sun Temple. Emissaries from every city stood with the members of her court. They all turned to witness her entrance as the orchestra began to play. Queen Byleth allowed herself a small sigh.
Yes, look upon me, you vermin. I am Byleth, the last queen of the et'Urdrammor dynasty, delivered into the hands of my enemies.
She had spent the entire day being bathed, dressed, and made up. She wore the traditional bridal gown in gold silk and damask. Her hair was pinned up and festooned with a fortune in jewels. She might look like a goddess, but inside she felt like the biggest fool in the empire. She should have heeded Astaptah's advice. She should have removed the Sun Cult from the city long ago when she had the chance, but she had chosen the path of patience, hoping to wait them out. Tomorrow, Erugash would belong to the priests in all but name. She had failed herself and her people.
She almost wished Lord Astaptah were here now. A smile spread across her lips as she imagined the scene he would create, with the priests struggling between their opposing desires to see her wed off as soon as possible and putting her apostate vizier to a gruesome death. However, she had met with him this morning before the sun rose. He hadn't said much as she g
ave her final instructions. Whatever happened to her, she would not allow the storm engine to fall into the priesthood's hands. With much regret, she had commanded Astaptah to dismantle his life's work and destroy all records of its existence. He had taken the news in silence and then departed her chambers for the last time. Theirs had been an odd relationship, tempestuous at times, but at the end she had to concede that he had been one of her most loyal servants. She did not envy his chances for survival once her new husband sat on the throne.
As custom demanded, she arrived first to the altar with her train of attendants. Xantu stood beside her in the place of her ceremonial father, wearing a stern expression, but she knew him well enough to see the anxiety in the way he stood, the way he looked about, as if searching for an assassin.
There will be no need for assassins after this night, my protector. After tonight, I am merely the wife of a king.
Thousands of citizens filled the temple grounds beneath the terrace. Their voices rose like a wave of sound as she arrived. Byleth smiled back at them despite her fears. They were still her people for this moment, and she had loved them all her life. It had been a day much like today fifteen years ago when her father had introduced her to the city at her official “arrival” ceremony. Her throat tightened as she recalled walking out on the lower balcony of the unfinished palace for the first time, and the sea of faces staring up at her.
I was overwhelmed that day, and today my people remind me that I love them still, more than ever. Please forgive me.
Four priests of the Sun Lord entered behind her, led by Kadamun. The high priest looked like he had aged ten years since the last time she'd seen him. His back bent almost into a shepherd's crook, the skin of his bald head wrinkled and pale, tattoos faded. Menarch Rimesh followed him with two acolytes. Byleth glared at the envoy with every ounce of loathing inside her, which was substantial. His face was perfectly neutral, but she could imagine his smugness. He had beaten her. This wasn't her special day; it was his. The day he would make a queen of the blood grovel before the entire world. The zoana bubbled up inside her, wanting an outlet, and she was sorely tempted to unleash it. It wouldn't do her a bit of good, not with a dozen hounds of the Order seeded among the honored guests, ready to pounce at a moment's notice.
Everyone turned as Tatannu stepped onto the terrace. The prince of Nisus was resplendent in a coat of silver scales that shimmered like snakeskin in the failing daylight. Gold adorned the sword at his side, his fingers, and the large sunburst medallion hanging from his neck.
How touching that he wears the favor of his true love over his heart. I wonder if he will pray before he attempts to consummate our union. Or perhaps during?
Behind her groom marched an honor guard of famed Nisusi White Sphinxes, soldiers of fearsome reputation for both their skill at arms and unwavering loyalty. Statuettes of their mythological namesake perched on the crests of their tall helms.
The last members of the entourage were more priests, one from every faith as was also traditional in a marriage of such high status. The final members, votaries of Nabu the Keeper of Ancient Knowledge, closed the doors behind them as they entered. With deep voices chanting in unison, they pronounced the portals sealed. No one would be allowed to enter or leave until the ceremony was complete.
While Byleth eyed the doors with a powerful desire to be on the other side, the prince came to stand beside her wearing a small smile, and her heart sunk. His wasn't a smile of happiness or even of anticipated post-nuptial bliss; it was the self-satisfied smirk of a cat about to swallow the bird it had caught. The absurdity of the situation weighed down on her. She was standing in her own city, facing a man so much weaker in the zoana that she could kill him without much difficulty if she tried, but once their lives were joined in marriage, he would become her lord and master. She would be trapped for the rest of her life, which she presumed would be cut short unless she came up with some scheme. Pregnancy was the first thing to come to mind. Few men, especially those of the zoanii class, would willingly give up the chance to have a legitimate son. If she conceived right away, that could buy her nine months. And by the time she delivered—Kishar, make it a son—she was confident she could have the prince wrapped around her finger. She had ensnared far more willful men into her web.
Although the savage proved immune to your charms, didn't he?
Thinking of Horace evoked a warm rush of feelings. She'd thought he would be her salvation, but he had disappeared along with Lord Mulcibar, just like every other man in her life.
Father, why did it have to be this way?
Rimesh cleared his throat. High Priest Kadamun lifted a hand slowly to the height of his chest. His fingers shook a little as he intoned the blessing of the Sun Lord, which Byleth automatically repeated as she had at so many rites before.
“Homage to thee, O Lord of Light. He who sails across the sky, blessing all the world with His warmth. Watch over us, Great Lord…”
Even as the words fell listlessly from her lips, Byleth felt her spirit—her qa—shrivel up. Her legs began to tremble as she saw a glimpse of her future extending before her, an endless landscape of scheming and deceit punctuated by moments of mortal terror until the day she was quietly dispatched. Her chest began to ache as she had to fight for each breath. She blinked and caught herself before she tumbled against the altar. She glanced up, ashamed at this sudden weakness, but no one else seemed to have noticed. Tatannu was piously reciting the prayers in response to the high priest's droning. Rimesh watched the crowd, oblivious to her.
I'm just a prop. I could collapse on the floor and I doubt old Kadamun would even break cadence.
Byleth put out a hand to steady herself and found herself thrown against the hard granite altar block. The air rushed from her lungs in a painful gasp as a burning heat saturated her back through the thin material of her gown. She tapped into her zoana and raised a ward of hardened air around herself as she twisted around. Where the doors to the temple had stood, now only an empty space remained. Their smoldering remains sagged on broken hinges amid a cloud of smoke. The stench of sorcery laced the air. Those witnesses who had not been knocked flat by the blast were quickly hurrying away from the sundered entry.
Shouts rang through the chamber as something flew through the smoke and landed on the terrace floor. It was a person wrapped in black rags. Byleth steadied herself as she peered closer. No, not black rags. Deep crimson robes like those worn by the men of the Order, seared nearly to charcoal.
Her heart almost stopped as a tall figure stepped through the broken doorway, wisps of smoke curling around his shoulders.
Somber music filled the broad corridor. Deep drum rhythms echoed off the walls in time to a chorus of pipes and horns, all warning him that this was a bad idea.
Horace wiped his upper lip as he contemplated what they were about to do—interrupt a royal wedding and accuse the groom of colluding with the most powerful priesthood in the empire in a plot to kill off the bride before the ink on the marriage contract was dry. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was parched.
At the end of the hallway loomed double doors of varnished wood reinforced with iron bands. The back of Horace's neck itched as he approached the exit. “Are you sure this is the way?”
Alyra nodded toward the doors. She appeared calm. “That leads to the western terrace.”
He took a deep breath and released it. When they got to within a dozen paces of the doors, a figure appeared from the shadows of the archway. Horace's stomach knotted at the sight of the man's shaved head and blood-red robes. He was quite short, no taller than Alyra, and built like a scarecrow, but an aura of power surrounded him. Horace started to lift his hand when bands of solidified air clamped around his torso, crushing his arms against his sides. He wove a net of fire, working off the idea of the lasso he'd used before, and sent it spinning down the corridor. The sorcerer deflected it with a wave of air that wrapped the net into a ball and shunted it into a wall where the flames burst h
armlessly against the stone.
Horace erected another barrier right before a blob of what looked like red-hot lava landed on him. Instead, it spattered against the shield in front of his face. Trying not to think about what would have happened if the stuff had hit him, Horace visualized himself holding two huge boulders and brought his hands together in a sharp slap. The sorcerer's eyes bulged as invisible fists of air crushed him from both sides. His face dripped blood from a series of widening immaculata on both cheeks.
A light touch fell on Horace's shoulder, but he didn't turn. He wanted this over. He thrust both his hands at the sorcerer. A stream of livid orange flame jetted down the corridor and caught the sorcerer, hurling him back into the doors, which smashed open with a thunderous boom. Horace shook his head to clear away an annoying ring that echoed through his skull. The doors were gone. Not just burst open, but completely ripped away from the frame. A cloud of smoke billowed in the entryway. A metallic, almost chemical odor wafted from the ruined doorway. It reminded him of a foundry, but more exotic. There was no sign of the sorcerer either. A tremor of unease rippled through his stomach at the sight of the destruction he had caused.
Horace relaxed his powers and glanced back at Alyra. Her face was ashen, but she took his hand with cool fingers. “Ready?” he asked.
“No. But let's get on with it.”
Trying to project a confidence he didn't feel, he led her through the smoke. A susurrus of voices rose before them. Horace squinted as he stepped across the threshold. The rays of the fading sun shone upon a grand platform. The queen leaned against a stone altar beside her fiancé at the center of the terrace. The prince appeared aghast at the intrusion, while Byleth wore a look of bemused astonishment. Four priests, including Menarch Rimesh, stood behind the altar with pained expressions, perhaps because of the smoking body of the Order sorcerer at their feet.
