by Jon Sprunk
Horace let out a quick sigh. “Kanadu, Belum. For everything. I didn't get the chance to thank you properly after the Tammuris, but I want you to know I'll never forget what you did for me.”
“Perhaps someday I may grant you the chance to repay that debt, First Sword.”
“Of course. I look forward to the opportunity.”
Stepping out onto the street, Horace was momentarily blinded by the morning light. Blinking away the brightness, he discovered he was back where Astaptah had picked him up. His bodyguards saw him and hurried over. The carriage took off again, its tall wheels rattling across the street.
As he watched it leave, Horace considered the strange conversation in a new light. Lord Astaptah was no fool. Oddly enough, the vizier seemed to understand him better than he imagined was possible, perhaps better than anyone else in Erugash. And that included Alyra, who had returned to her private world of spies and informants without him.
The rising sun cast his shadow far ahead of him as he headed home.
The final images of the scene decayed into sepia emptiness as she withdrew her power. Horace leaving Astaptah's carriage. Standing on the street outside the Moon Temple as the vehicle drove off. Then her First Sword walked away, his head down as if deep in thought.
Byleth released Kelcia's head as the memories evaporated between them. She didn't like seeing her vizier conferencing with her First Sword, especially without her knowledge and consent. Lord Astaptah was difficult to control; she did not want him influencing Horace. Even worse, she didn't want to imagine what kinds of plots the two might hatch together. If there was a more volatile and dangerous pair of men in the empire outside of the Imperial Court, she didn't want to know. Standing up from the chair where she'd been sitting during the mind-scrying, she sent the girl back out into the street to follow Horace. That was as much as she could do at the moment.
Byleth glanced at Lady Anshara, who stood in the doorway of the antechamber they had borrowed. “Go home, my dear. Mourn for your uncle.”
The woman lifted her chin. “With all respect, Majesty, my place is here. This is where I wish to be, doing my duty. My uncle would expect no less.”
“As you wish.”
Byleth took a deep breath and walked down the wide corridor bisecting the Moon Temple's second-highest tier. They'd left Xantu and the rest of her bodyguard below in the main chamber out of deference; no males were allowed above the ground floor of the temple. But Lady Anshara was more than enough protection, especially here in the heart of the crown's most ardent supporters. Byleth felt more at ease amid these pale-blue hallways than she often did in her own palace. There was something calming about this place, or perhaps it was the serene looks on the faces of the priestesses here, old and young. She felt like she was among sisters.
The door at the end of the hallway was watched by two ancient priestesses. They sat on stools outside the door, combing flax from large baskets into long strands. Byleth paused for a moment to watch with awe their spindly fingers, working the fibers with amazing dexterity. As they worked, they hummed a tune together. She didn't recognize it as first, but then she realized they were humming a widow's dirge. Frowning, Byleth passed between them.
The high priestess's cell was a plain affair, barely as large as Byleth's bathing chamber. Rough plaster covered the walls and ceiling without decoration save for a coating of light-blue paint, which was chipped and cracked in several places. A narrow cot sat against the far wall, flanked by a chamberpot and a small washstand. In a niche over the bed was a simple idol of Sippa in alabaster. Heat radiated from a small fireplace and two coal-filled braziers.
Three young novices stood around the high priestess, looking as if they were about to cry. They held a sheet of black cloth in front of the bed as Byleth entered. It was an old ceremonial tradition to separate the dying from the living with a symbolic veil of death.
“Leave us,” came a wan voice from the bed.
The novices hesitated a moment, until the high priestess waved them away with a frail hand. “Go, my darlings.”
The young girls sidled past Byleth and fled into the hallway. The queen closed the door behind them.
“They mean well, the poor children. Help me up.”
High Priestess Iltani looked painfully old. The linen undershift hung loose on her bony frame, and the age spots down her cheeks and across the backs of her hands appeared darker in the pale lamplight. Her silver hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. When did she get so old? She looks like she's about to break apart at any moment.
Byleth hurried to help her sit up, grabbing a cushion from the foot of the bed and placing it behind the old woman for support. As she did so, she probed the priestess with a trickle of zoana. She'd never had much talent for healing. She could do little more than determine whether the old woman's heart was failing, its rhythm fluttering every few beats, causing blood to pool in the large arteries. But the high priestess had already been seen by the best healers in the city. She was simply dying, and nothing could stop that.
The priestess leaned back with a sigh. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Byleth flicked her fingers. “Please, no titles. Not today.”
“As you wish. But if you're going to stay, you'll have to make yourself useful. Fetch me that cup. My throat's as dry as the desert. I can't seem to make enough moisture anymore.”
Byleth got the cup and refilled it from a pitcher on the washstand, noticing as she poured that it was wine instead of water. She brought it over with two hands. “I hope this isn't from the goddess's sacred vintage.”
Iltani chuckled as she accepted the cup. “That swill? No, this is the good stuff. Lord Mulcibar's steward sent it over yesterday, and I've been sampling it vigorously.”
The queen couldn't help but smile at the old woman's words. “I think you're justified.”
“Of course I am! I'm dying. Oh, don't bother shaking your head. I know it. I've known for months. I have my good days and bad days, and lately the bad days have been taking over. It's the way of things, that's all.”
Byleth sat on the side of the bed and placed her hand on the priestess's arm. The bones felt like kindling under the thin sleeve of the shift. She tried to subdue the feelings bubbling inside her, but they climbed up her throat anyway, putting an annoying quiver in her voice. “You'll be missed, you know? Especially by me. There aren't a lot of people I can talk to.”
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Byleth. Life is hard, for queens as well as washerwomen and net-haulers. Your father had it harder, let me tell you. He didn't have half your ability with the zoana, and he was forever putting out fires inside his own court because of it. He had to forge strong alliances to win the proper respect, and even then most of the nobility were licking their chops to see him fall. No, child. I won't permit any peevishness in here. Lift up your chin! There you go. That's the girl I remember.”
Byleth laughed despite the tears spilling down her face. “That's what I mean. No one else tells me the truth. I'm not complaining. I'm just trying to say no one will ever replace you.”
“Sadly, that's not true. There will be a new high priestess of this temple soon, and you'd be wise to bind her to you as soon as possible. You're intent on rolling the dice, child. Yes, I can see it in your eyes. You've been planning something, and what happened on the Tammuris was only the tip of the spear. I almost feel bad for your enemies. Well, not really. The bastards deserve every bit of what they've got coming.”
“Iltani! Cursing in the temple? They'll bury you out behind the refuse pits.”
The high priestess took another sip. “It's a distinct possibility. But the goddess is forgiving. She knows we're all flawed vessels.”
“This flawed vessel could use some good advice.”
“I'm sorry, but that's in short supply these days.” The high priestess reached up to pat Byleth's cheek. “Trust in yourself, child. And trust in the gods who created us and breathed the spirit of life into our bodies. Thes
e are the secrets of success. Now go. I'm feeling tired.”
“Of course. Is there anything you need?”
“No, I'm content. But thank you for coming to see me. It was my last wish, and the Lady made it come true.”
Byleth blinked through her tears, nodding as she got up and went to the door. She thought she heard a whisper behind her, the words so soft she couldn't be sure, but they had sounded like a blessing. Or a lullaby.
The queen opened the door. Without looking back, she whispered, “Good-bye.”
Horace returned home to find a crowd outside his gates. More than fifty people—men, women, and even a few children—chanted and banged small drums, and a few even danced in feverish circles. Then someone spotted him, and the multitude fell silent as they turned to him.
“Belzama!” a person cried from the crowd.
At once, all heads bowed.
Horace ground his teeth. What do you want from me? I don't have any answers. I'm not special. I'm not even good. If you only knew the truth….
But he said nothing. He followed his guards through the crowd, wincing as the gate clanged shut, separating him from the outside.
Once inside the house, he wandered the upper floor of the manor. His brain felt scrambled with all the things rattling around inside it. He was tired but didn't feel like sleeping. He wanted peace and quiet, but he was afraid to be alone.
Alyra's door was closed. He was tempted to see if she was in but pushed the thought away. She wanted her space, and he could respect that. Perhaps if things kept going along this path, he would find her another place to live. A nice apartment in the city, maybe near the royal gardens. Yet the mere thought of her leaving drove a spike through his heart and made everything he was feeling worse.
His meandering took him into the east wing to his solarium. The room was large, but it felt close because of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases built into the side walls. The east wall was dominated by a stained glass window as big as a dinner table. The orange, red, blue, and green slices of glass cast a mosaic of lights across the hardwood floor. The air was warm and smelled of paper.
Most of the books on the shelves had come with the house. They covered a wide range of subjects from farming techniques to astrology. Horace had read a few of them already, using them to bolster his grasp of the Akeshian language.
A long desk of yellow wood sat beneath the stained glass window. It was low to the floor in the Akeshian style, with a padded stool in place of a chair. Since he didn't spend much time in here, preferring to work in his office at the palace, he hadn't taken the time to change the furniture. As he walked over to the desk, he saw the wooden chest he'd brought back from Mulcibar's estate, tucked behind a map stand. Seized by sudden curiosity, and more than a little melancholy since the funeral, Horace pulled the chest over to the desk. He opened the latches and started to lift the lid but paused, remembering the day Mulcibar had educated him on the many devious ways that containers could be trapped with malicious sorcery. He was about to tap into his zoana to examine the trunk more closely, but the lethargy that had haunted him since waking up convinced him it would be fine. I'll take my chances.
Inside were a variety of items. Two leather-bound books were stacked beneath a bundle of papyrus scrolls. Horace scanned the scrolls as he placed them on the desk. They read like journal entries at first glance, but as he read further Horace got the gist that they were research notes. The topics included religion, astronomy, mathematics, and architectural drafting. He even found a treatise on the construction of a new kind of sailing vessel, larger than anything he'd ever seen. Impressed, he dug back into the trunk.
The books were studies on magical theory, both written by Mulcibar. Horace picked them up eagerly and fanned open the gilded pages. The script was strange—Akeshian but in a style he'd never seen before. There were diagrams as well, showing geometric shapes with lines and labels in the same script. They reminded him a little of engineering plans, but it only took a minute for him to realize these volumes went far beyond his meager understanding of the magical arts. He put them on the desk as well, determined to study them later.
On the bottom were several objects wrapped in oilskin cloth. Horace took them out one at a time. The first was a sailor's sextant in brass, which gave him a chuckle. Was Mulcibar trying to remind him of his seafaring past? Perhaps it was an admonition to never lose your bearings. Or maybe the old man just liked to collect odd knickknacks.
The next parcel turned out to be a set of pens in a lacquered box, complete with two inkwells and a pearl-handled sharpening knife. He put that aside also, thinking it would look good in his office at the palace.
When he reached down for the last parcel, a shock ran up his hand. Like a fog scattered before a stiff sea breeze, the lassitude infecting him disappeared as if he had plunged his head into a bucket of cold water. He reached for the cube-shaped package again. It was heavier than he expected. He unwrapped the cloth to find a silver box with four tiny clawed feet. Each of the sides and top were cast with abstract crisscrossing designs that resembled the winding tracks of earthworms crawling through the dirt.
He cleared a space on the desk. Then he tried to tap into the Kishargal dominion to probe the box with thin tendrils of energy. Pain erupted along the backs of his hands and up his arms like steel nails driven into his flesh. With a hiss, he pulled back. His power had left him in a rush, snuffed out like a lamp wick.
Zoahadin.
Why would Mulcibar keep a box made from a metal antithetical to sorcerers? More importantly, what could be inside that needed such protection? He took the knife out of the pen set. Taking a deep breath, he used it to push up on the lid. It refused to budge. Horace pried at it for several seconds until he became exasperated. To Hell with this. Just take the bull by the horns.
Dropping the knife, he grabbed the box's lid with both hands and lifted. As if a hidden catch had released, the lid flew open. A small sphere sat inside on a bed of black cloth. Horace leaned forward for a better look. The sphere was completely smooth and translucent. The outer shell was red-gold, but black swirls lurked within its depths. He'd never seen anything like it. Even the material was a mystery to him. Was it glass? Some exotic alloy?
Horace touched the sphere with his forefinger. The surface was slippery and cool to the touch. An engraved silver plate was affixed to the inside of the lid, reading:
And thus did Harutuk arm himself with the flame of Endu and go forth to battle the Great Mother of Night.
Horace looked back in the trunk, but there were no more parcels. Nothing else to explain what this might be. He was stuck in the dark, no closer to knowing why Mulcibar had been murdered than before. Then he remembered the nobleman had visited the royal archives the night he vanished.
Horace plucked the orb out of the box and shoved it into his pocket for later study. He was curious why Mulcibar had bequeathed it to him. Was it another clue about what he'd been studying when he disappeared? Maybe the archives will have the answer.
He put the box back in the trunk, repressing a shiver as his skin touched the silvery metal, and closed the lid. He thought about attempting to ward the trunk with some kind of enchantment, but he didn't know the first thing about it. Instead, he shoved the chest out of sight behind the desk.
Leaving the solarium, he closed the door behind him and headed downstairs. Gurita and another guard sat in the atrium playing at sticks, their shields at their feet. They stood up as he came down and followed him out the door.
The royal archives looked different in the daytime. A stolid building as ancient as the city's oldest temples and palaces, it was surrounded by a neighborhood that had moved on with the times, becoming more upscale and lavish even as the archives remained stuck in an older century. The building's flat roof was crowned with a row of statues, limestone icons of mythological beasts and persons, their faces worn away by the passage of time.
Horace walked up the broad stairs and entered the great bronze doors,
which stood open during the day. Leaving the heat of the afternoon outside, he looked around the long atrium, trying to decide how to conduct his search. Six wide halls led off the central atrium, each filled with rows of scroll cases and shelves. Scribes, most of them old men, bent over canted desks, scribbling with quill pens. Novices with shaved heads dusted the completed pages with sand before taking them away to be stored.
Horace stopped one of the novices as he hurried past with a sheaf of fresh papyrus sheets. “Pardon me.”
The young man blinked at him as if unsure how to react but then bowed from the waist. “Ai, Belum.”
In his most formal Akeshian, Horace asked to be announced to the head archivist. The novice bowed again and rushed off. After several minutes, two old men entered the atrium from the south end. Horace recognized one of them from the last time he was here. He raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning, Archivist. Perhaps you remember—”
“The First Sword, Horace Delrosa of Arnos. Can you explain why I was interrupted from a very delicate restoration of a Fourth Dynasty cyclopedia?”
“My apologies, sir. The last time I was here, I was searching for Lord Mulcibar.”
The old archivist's head bobbed up and down between his narrow shoulders. “I heard of his death. Very tragic, but I fail to see how this concerns the archives.”
“You told me the tomes Lord Mulcibar was studying that night, but I've forgot—”
“The Gahahag Codex of Theolon Siggaratum, the Maganu Book of the Dead translated by Garoma Parimi, and Ipsu-Amur's The Ninety-Ninth Day.”
“Ah, yes. Those were the ones. I was hoping I could see—”
The archivist started walking away before he could finish. Horace hesitated for a moment. Then he motioned for his guards to stay behind as he followed the old man.
They passed through a grand hall floored in white marble. Light poured in through rows of square windows high along the walls. Motes of dust danced in the sunlight, but everything was kept remarkably pristine. The archivist shoved open a door at the back of the hall, and Horace followed him into a smaller chamber, dim without any windows. The old man fretted with a lamp on a stand near the door until it sparked to life. “Wait here,” he said simply before leaving.
