by Jon Sprunk
The room had plain walls of cedar wooden paneling, unlike the stone walls he'd seen elsewhere in the archives. Their pleasant, faintly musty scent filled the air. The only furnishings were a low table large enough to seat a dozen people and a single footstool. Not sure what to do, Horace just stood as time passed. After a half a bell or so, the door opened, and three novices entered. Each youth held a large book. They placed them all on the table with special care. Then, after a bow to him, they filed out.
Horace sat down. The first tome to his left was as tall as his arm from wrist to shoulder. Bound in leather so dark it looked almost black, faint characters in gold-leaf read Nine and Ninety Days. The other two books were even larger. Their antiquity was evident in the aged pages. Horace began with the first book.
Reading by the single lamp soon made his eyes ache as he leafed through the pages. The book detailed, according to its author, the nearly one hundred days that the gods of the Akeshian pantheon dwelt on earth during the Annunciation. It was precisely what he expected it to be, a collection of ludicrous myths dressed up as a historical account. What had Mulcibar been looking for in this collection of primitive tales?
He went on to the next tome, the Gahahag Codex. The tall leaves of this bronze-bound tome were made from some kind of leather hide, tough yet supple. Because of its age, translating the text was difficult for him, but it seemed to be a testimonial. The author's claims were fantastic—even ludicrous—and Horace found himself skipping passages, though he paused at a section devoted to demonology, which described a host of evil spirits believed to haunt the dark hours of the night. There was even an entry on idimmu, the kind of flesh-eating demons that had attacked the palace on a night Horace would rather forget. He was about to move on when he spotted a handwritten notation in the margin of the page, written in Arnossi.
We cannot afford to ignore this. The threat is growing.
Had Mulcibar written that? Beside the notation was a passage about the demons of the underworld. Horace read it quickly.
Seven are the lords of Absu, the beings from the Outside who ever desire to enter our world. And their Names are forbidden, for to call upon Them is to invite Death for all mankind. Do not seek to descend the seven Steps down to the Gates of Death. The nether world is formless and contains all the elements of Chaos, unbounded and against which no charm can protect you.
Below the passage was a disturbing illustration of a huge underground sea. At the bottom of its depths was a serpentine creature—possibly a dragon—that appeared to be asleep. Studying the picture, Horace tried to understand what Mulcibar was trying to tell him. Damn it, old man. Why couldn't you just tell me like a normal person?
He read the entire page twice and part of the next section, which talked about how demons had once ruled the world in a time of darkness until they were banished by the new gods of Akeshia to someplace called the “Outside,” which was apparently also an ocean deep underground.
He closed the book and pushed it away. The whole matter made him uneasy. He'd never been a believer of supernatural things. Even as a follower of the True Faith, which had its own fair share of spirits, both benign and malicious, he tended to think about such forces in metaphorical terms. However, he'd seen things since coming to this land that had shaken that philosophy. Hell, I've done things that would get me exiled from the Church if anyone back in Arnos found out. If not tied to a stake and burned as an agent of darkness. So what am I to make of all this talk of demons and gods? Obviously, the Akeshian people believe these stories, but what's so important about them now in this day and age?
Lord Mulcibar had warned him that he suspected people in the court were working against the queen, although he never offered any names. Was there a connection between the two warnings? It seemed dubious.
Horace held back a yawn as he stretched. He thought about going through the third book, but it looked awfully long, and he was getting tired. He went to the door and found a young novice standing outside. “Pardon. I'm going to need to take these books with me. Can you fetch my guards?”
The novice's eyes almost popped out of his head. Without answering, he ran off. A few minutes later, he returned following the chief archivist, who again was not pleased at being interrupted. When Horace repeated his request, the old librarian had nearly an identical reaction as his young helper. It took some wrangling, but eventually Horace was able to pull rank and get permission to take the books, with the promise that he would be exceedingly careful and not let them out of his sight. Each book was then wrapped in a soft leather sheet and tied up with twine for protection.
By the time he left the archives, the day was mostly gone. Long shadows stretched across the streets as the afternoon waned. He was tempted to go home, but a twinge of guilt convinced him to visit his office.
With his guards, burdened with the bound books, in tow, Horace set off toward the palace.
The sky laughed at him, a low rumble that reverberated down into the ground. Horace dropped his head back to the earth and felt the gritty crunch of the soil beneath him. He was alone on a vast field of dark earth with the gray firmament stretched above him. A zephyr toyed with his hair, but he tried to ignore it as he listened to the sky's murmurings. There was a message in those tumultuous rumblings, he was sure of it. He listened closely until a voice emerged, sometimes as loud as thunder before drifting away to a mere whisper. Yet quiet or loud, the words seared into his brain.
We see you lying in the cold earth, Storm-Lord. Why do you not rise up to meet our call?
Horace heard his voice responding, though it sounded off to his ears. “I can't fly. My wings are gone.”
No, you have only forgotten them, as your kind always forgets. In time, you will even forget us, the one who gave you life. We breathed our spirits in you, but you no longer remember.
Horace wanted to reach up, but his arms were stuck to the earth, tied down by a thousand invisible bonds. “Wait! I don't want to go down into the ground!”
It is too late. The darkness comes, and from that we can no longer shelter you. The book of the earth is closing, and a new age dawns.
From somewhere above his head came a deep, angry howl. Horace struggled against the ties that held him, but he couldn't break free. The sky roiled and spat green pillars of light, but the voice was gone. Drifted away on the wind.
The opening of a door woke him. Horace blinked up at the ceiling of his bedchamber. He could still feel his ears straining to hear every note of the thunder in his dream, now fading as he came to full wakefulness.
Dharma entered with a covered tray and placed it across his lap. Under the cover were a small plate of sliced oranges, a brown roll, honey, and a clay cup. Thanking her, he dug in. While he cut open the roll and slathered its hot insides with honey, Dharma opened the curtains. Birds chirped outside his window. The warmth of the sun's rays across his blanket made Horace want to go back to sleep, but the echoes of the dream prickled at the back of his mind.
“What time it is?”
“Just past the first hour, Master,” she replied. “A carriage has arrived for you.”
Horace suddenly remembered Lord Astaptah's offer to help with his problem. He wolfed down the roll and beer as he got out of bed. He used the water closet and dressed in a simple robe, not sure what would be appropriate attire. He stuffed the orb on the nightstand into his pocket and rushed downstairs.
Gurita waited in the foyer, ready to leave.
“Meet me at the palace,” Horace said. “I'll be there in an hour or maybe two.”
The guard captain didn't look pleased by the command, but he nodded.
The carriage waiting outside looked the same as the one he'd ridden in with Lord Astaptah the day before. He couldn't be sure if it was the same driver, though. Horace climbed inside and settled back against the firm seat.
The carriage took him on a bumpy ride through the city, east to the Silver Gate leading out of the city. Horace had never been this way. He watched through
the window as they passed under the great battlemented gatehouse, through the long stone tunnel, and finally out the other side. The road angled northeast from the gate through sections of empty fields.
He thought about trying to meditate, but the ride was too bouncy, and anyway he wasn't in the mood. His mind was distracted, making him antsy and yet also sapping his energy to do anything. Maybe it's that bizarre dream. I've been having a lot of them lately. It's probably the stress. I could use some time away from all this responsibility, but this time without anyone trying to kill me.
Less than a bell later, they turned onto a dirt road. The fields petered out, to be replaced by copses of sturdy cypress trees surrounded by long stretches of open plain. In the distance, high up on a lone hill, Horace saw an old structure consisting of tall pillars with capstones. He thought that might be their destination, until the carriage passed it by. The ride became even more uncomfortable for several minutes as the wheels seemed to find every hole and rut in the road. Then the vehicle jerked to a halt.
Horace let himself out before the driver could climb down from his seat. They had arrived at an outdoor amphitheater. Rows of stone seats were carved into the side of a low hill, encircling one-half of a wide stage. The open end of the theater looked out over a bucolic expanse of meadows and trees. The walls of Erugash gleamed on the horizon.
Two men stood on the stage platform. Horace recognized Lord Astaptah, his black robes an ominous contrast to the gorgeous countryside around them. The vizier stood beside a younger man, possibly thirty years of age or thereabouts, in a gray robe with a leather belt. Horace had never seen him before. The younger man had a solid build and a full head of hair, cut short above his collar.
As Horace walked up to them, Lord Astaptah nodded to the other man. “Lord Horace, this is an associate of mine. You can call him Uriom. I brought him to work with you today.”
Horace was a little confused. “I thought you and I would be working together.”
“I shall oversee the exercises. Now, step up on the platform, if you will. Opposite your opponent.”
Horace wasn't sure he liked the designation “your opponent,” but he said nothing. He was trying to be open-minded about this, although he doubted Lord Astaptah or his associate could help much with this particular problem. As he took his place, he noticed several large symbols had been drawn on the stage in red paint. He didn't recognize any of them. They certainly weren't Akeshian characters. “What are these for?”
“Please focus.” Lord Astaptah walked off the stage. “I have considered your difficulty. It's my opinion you are unsure of yourself, and thus the power refuses to respond.”
Before Horace could respond, the vizier held up a hand, and Uriom attacked. A narrow jet of water shot across the distance between them.
It came so fast Horace almost couldn't react. He grabbed for his zoana out of pure instinct and wove it into a crude shield of compacted air. The water struck it with a hissing roar. Horace dug his heels into the stage to keep from being pushed backward by the force.
“Stop!”
Lord Astaptah's voice cracked over the amphitheater like a whip. Uriom immediately ceased his assault, which left Horace stumbling for a second. He dropped the air shield.
“You must use all the tools at your disposal, Lord Horace.”
“I'm not sure what you mean.”
“The void! It is your primary weapon and your greatest defense.”
“But Lord Mulcibar said that mastery of the Shinar allowed me to use all of the dominions.”
“Exactly, but the true strength of the Shinar comes from incorporating it into every other element. Only by blending them together will you achieve this so-called mastery.”
Horace remembered the flow of void energy that had merged with his sorcery to bring down the Chapter House and how effective it had been. And also how frightening. He didn't relish feeling that loss of control again, not to mention the intense pain that ate at him every time he tried to use the power. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Breathe. Mulcibar always said to focus on your breathing. You can do this.
Lord Astaptah gestured again, and Uriom resumed his attack. This time, he hurled two jets of focused water across the stage. Horace focused on his flows. He drew out the Imuvar, as before, and this time pulled a thread of Shinar along with it. Knitting them together into a new shield of air and void, he was surprised by how easily the power came to him. He became so enraptured by the simple joy of using the magic that he almost jumped when Lord Astaptah shouted again.
“Stop!”
The water vanished. Horace allowed his shield to linger for a moment before dropping it so he could appreciate the fineness of the weave. He was rather proud of himself, though a dull ache throbbed behind his breastbone. “What now?”
Lord Astaptah smacked his palm with a closed fist. “You must turn back the attack. Defending merely encourages your opponent to continue his attack. After all, what price does he pay?”
Uriom stood still as blood dripped from a long cut on his left hand. Horace watched it splash on the platform, drop by drop. He swallowed. “All right.”
“Again!” Lord Astaptah called out.
They ran the exercise over and over. Each time Horace met the attack and turned it aside, and each time Lord Astaptah exhorted him to press harder, to strike back faster, to go for the kill. With every bout, the pain in his chest grew. After an hour, he could hardly stand upright. Uriom was only in slightly better shape. Though the zoanii had managed to evade all of Horace's counterattacks, his gray robe was soaked in his own blood. It poured from his face, chest, and both arms. A strange sort of pride filled Horace. Yes, he was suffering, but he had pushed past the pain again and again, proving that it was not his master.
He also noticed the odd sensation he'd felt at the Chapter House. The feeling of being watched, only it was stronger now. It almost felt like a presence was lurking inside his mind, listening to his thoughts. He'd tried to shove it out, but it was like pushing wet sand. It just oozed around his mental grasp. The symbols on the stage seemed to shimmer for a moment.
“Enough.”
Horace drew in a ragged breath and winced as the pain in his chest burned. Is it really supposed to hurt like this?
Lord Astaptah approached the stage. “That pain is the cost of power.”
A little unnerved that the vizier could read him so easily, Horace replied, “It didn't feel like this before.”
As he stepped up in the stage, Lord Astaptah indicated Uriom, who was wrapping his hands and forearms in thick bandages. “Most zoanii suffer the immaculata. Practitioners of the Shinar, however, pay a different price. An internal price.”
“Why?”
“That is the way it is. The sooner you accept that, and embrace it, the sooner you will find the control you seek. Until then, you will be a danger to those around you.”
Horace didn't need to be warned about that. “Lately, whenever I use the power, I get this weird feeling. It's hard to describe, but it's like I'm being watched.” He touched the back of his head. “But from inside my mind. Does that make any sense?”
“That is you, watching yourself. It is called the inner eye. Do not fear this presence. Instead, like the pain, you must draw it closer and make it one with you. I suspect this is what happened on the night of the Tammuris, though you did not realize it at the time. Now you feel the power more keenly.”
They started walking back to the carriage. Horace was exhausted and glad to be done. Lord Astaptah walked with his hands folded behind his back and his head bowed. “This is a difficult period of transition, Horace. But you will do better if you refrain from fighting it.”
“That's not easy. The pain becomes so intense—”
“Focus on that pain. Breathe it into your body and merge it with your essence. The more you resist, the harder your path will be.”
They came to the carriage, and the driver opened the door.
“Kanadu, Bel
um,” Horace said. “This has given me a lot to think about.”
“We will try again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? God in Heaven, I don't think I can go through this again. Yet he replied, “You honor me with your attention.”
The vizier bowed his head. “The honor is mine, First Sword.”
Horace climbed into the car and sagged gratefully into the seat. He hurt all over, but the pain in his chest was slowly fading, leaving behind an ache that seemed to punch straight through to his spine. He considered going home for a nap or a soak in the tub but called up for the driver to take him to the palace instead.
As the carriage rattled over the bumpy dirt road, Horace closed his eyes. He thought back over the training, reliving it in his memory. Some of the things Lord Astaptah said conflicted with Mulcibar's teachings, but he couldn't argue with the results. He'd exhibited more control and confidence with the power today than he had since…since the battle against Rimesh and his priests. Why does that moment haunt me so? There was no other way to stop them.
Sometimes he thought life was just one huge challenge against the universe. If that was so, he was going to win.
Shifting onto his side, he felt a bulge in his robe pocket and pulled out the orb from Mulcibar's trunk. The slick coolness of its surface was soothing. He'd forgotten he'd picked it up on his way out the door.
Crimson light swirled with the black inside the small sphere, like an early morning sky over the ocean as night's cloak slips behind the horizon. He gazed into its depths as he considered what to do about his troublesome powers.
The sun beat down, flogging everything that walked or crawled across the earth's surface. It wasn't even midmorning yet, and already the temperature was insufferable. The river looked inviting, green and cool, but danger lurked in the hidden currents beneath its rushing surface, currents that could grab hold of a man or even a full-grown ox and drag it down to a watery end. Abdiel wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. All of nature, he observed, was a killer of one kind or another.
