by Jon Sprunk
Dharma entered the parlor on soft footsteps with another amphora and set it on the table. Horace finished his glass as she broke the seal on the jar. She made to pour, but he shook his head and told her to go back to bed. He fixed himself another glass, splashing a little of the plum brandy on the floor as he settled back in the chair.
After returning from the palace, he had ensconced himself here and started drinking to relieve the crushing pressure that hung over his head. He was certain he was finished at the royal court, having failed the queen, his only ally. And tomorrow he was being sent west to deal with a problem that had no solution. That's not true, old boy! There is a solution! Blood, and lots of it. Rivers of blood spilt from rebel veins. Enough to wash the entire city clean of its sins and buy a queen enough time to launch her bid for the empire's highest prize.
He wished he'd taken the queen's offer to go home months ago. Maybe it's not too late? No, she's in no mood to do me any favors now.
A roll of papyrus sat on the table between the lamp and the brandy jar. He wanted to write the letter to Ubar's family himself, rather than delegate it to a scribe. He owed them that much, at least. But how did you tell someone that their loved one, a young man barely old enough to be out on his own, was dead? And not just dead but murdered, all because he had been sent into a situation without understanding the danger. Should he write that he understood how they must feel? How could he? And yet, he did on some level. Perhaps even worse. He had lost a son, right before his eyes.
Jirom, I thought I knew you better than that. I believed we could work together to solve this problem. But now my hands are tied. I either try my best to stop you, or I lose everything.
He took another gulp from his glass, no longer tasting the brandy, only craving the oblivion it promised. He knew he would pay for it in the morning, but he'd gladly embrace the pain tomorrow if he could just escape the emptiness lurking in his heart for tonight.
The front door opened, and the guard stationed in the atrium murmured something. Horace slouched back in his chair, fighting against his first impulse, which was to rise and greet her.
She stood in the parlor doorway, facing him in the shadows. He imagined her features, drawn tight in condemnation. She'll stand there a moment longer, and then she'll go upstairs to enclose herself in her room until the early hours of the morning. When I awake, she'll be gone again, just like a ghost floating in and out of my life.
Alyra started to move, and he braced himself to be alone again, but then she was crossing the room. He swallowed the last splash in his glass as she stopped in front of him. Her hair was slightly tangled as if she'd been caught in a fierce wind. Her clothing was plain and simple with muted colors, unlike the bright, airy things she liked to wear during the daylight hours. Despite having just drunk himself into a mild stupor, his mouth was dry.
“I heard about Ubar.”
Her voice broke through the haze hanging around his brain, threatening to shatter him into a thousand pieces, but he held it together. “I…I'm supposed to write his family, but I don't have the damnedest idea what to say.”
“You should go to bed. You'll feel better in the morning.”
He let out a long sigh. “I wish I could, but I keep thinking about the last time I saw him. He was giving me advice about the queen and other things. He was always helping me, Alyra. You know? And he never asked for anything.”
“Sounds a lot like Lord Mulcibar.”
Yes, Ubar had taken Mulcibar's place in his life, as both a teacher and a confidant. Even though he was younger, he had been so mature for his age, and so understanding. Now he was dead, just like the old man. And I'm responsible for both their deaths. Maybe I didn't send Mulcibar to his doom, but his helping me surely played a part in his murder. Is this all I have to look forward to? Everyone that I care about dying?
Looking up at Alyra, so beautiful in the lamplight, he wondered if she would be next. By the tightening around her eyes, he could tell she was hurting. He wanted to put his arms around her, but they remained by his sides as if tied down. Despite seeing her pain, echoing his own, Horace couldn't help himself from asking, “Where have you been?”
He tried to soften the question with “I've been worried,” but he saw right away it didn't help.
“You look like a ghost, Horace. You need to take better care of yourself. All this stress isn't good for you.”
“Now you care?”
“I'm tired. I'm going upstairs.”
He jumped to his feet, swaying as a rush of blood flooded his brain. “No! I need to talk to you now. Tomorrow I'll be gone….”
He clamped his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to reveal his special mission right away, hoping to work things out with her before he drove that wagon home. He kept talking to explain. “The queen is sending me to Sekhatun in the morning. I don't know when I'll be back.”
Her eyebrows inched closer together as she regarded him. “I know.”
He didn't know why that should surprise him. She always seemed to know more about the happenings at court than he did. “So were you going to just let me leave without saying anything?”
“I hadn't decided yet.”
“Well, that's what you're best at, isn't it? Not deciding anything.”
“If you're talking about us—”
“Of course I'm talking about us! What else is there to discuss? You've got one foot in the door here with me and the other planted in your precious network. It's obvious you can't or won't make a decision about where your priorities lie. What do your spymasters think about that?”
Alyra's eyes turned cold. One of her hands came up to rest on her hip. “Do you really want to know? Because up until now you've been happy to play house with me while blissfully ignoring what's going on around you. I told you that you were playing with fire, but you didn't want to listen.”
“How can you stand there and say that? I've done nothing except shovel shit since the day I got here. For you, for the queen, for the court, for the rebels.”
“That's the problem, Horace. You don't have the courage to choose a side. You want so badly to please everyone that you end up blundering into one catastrophe after another. That's why I wasn't sure if I wanted to talk to you, because I knew this would happen. You've been blaming yourself for the things you did right and rejoicing in the things you did wrong.”
He threw his hands into the air, almost losing hold of his empty glass in the process. “What the blistering fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“What happened to Ubar was horrible, but you did the right thing by trying to negotiate with the slaves.”
The pain in his chest went from hot and raw to icy cold. “How can you say that? I sent him to his death, all because I trusted a mob of murderous traitors more than the people who have helped me and given me a place in this city.”
Alyra didn't move, but she seemed to be watching him from a greater distance, as if a gaping chasm had opened between them. “That's not you talking, Horace. That's her.”
“Who? The queen? She's angry at me and she has every right to be. I should have listened to her and dealt with the rebels the right way from the beginning.”
“How is that? With whips and wooden stakes? Is that the answer you've been seeking? Or is that what she wants? Think about it, Horace. You've been a slave. You should understand what the rebellion wants and why they won't quit until they get it.”
“I thought I understood, until they sent me Ubar's head in a box.”
Alyra fell silent, her face flushed, eyes dropping away. “I don't know why that happened, but you have to trust me—”
“No, I don't. I can't be sure who you're really trying help. Me, the slaves, or the people who sent you here to spy. But it's clear you don't care about what I'm trying to accomplish here.”
She murmured something, too low for him to hear.
“You're so secretive,” he continued. “I can't even talk to you anymore.”
She lifted her eyes, whi
ch were moist with pent-up tears. “I can't talk to you either, because I don't know you anymore. You've changed.”
“You've changed, too. We used to—”
Alyra left before he could finish his statement, marching out with swift strides back to the atrium and up the stairs.
Horace sighed, wishing she'd just avoided him from the start. He felt worse than before, even emptier inside, like a vast hole had opened inside him. He poured himself another brandy, not caring that some of it spilled over the rim of the glass and drenched the table. As he drank deep, he watched the liquor soak into the papyrus roll like a tide of brown blood.
Alyra got to the top of the stairs before her legs gave out, dropping her to her knees on the cold marble landing. Her sobs came in big, ragged gasps. She'd held on as long as she could in the parlor, but now her emotions crashed down beyond her control, dragging her down into a pit of misery. She hated the things she'd said to Horace but couldn't stop herself. She knew she was losing him to the queen, day by day. And now he was leaving Erugash to strike against the very people he'd once professed to want to help. It was the worst kind of betrayal.
Yet she couldn't deny her feelings. As much as she hated what he was doing, she still loved him. Night was right all along. He knew Horace would be the end of my usefulness to the cause. Now, after all I've done, I have nothing left. I'm alone.
With several shuddering breaths, she forced herself to her feet. She wiped her face as she hurried to her room. She couldn't stay here any longer. Every time she saw Horace it was like reopening a wound.
She went through her wardrobe, picking out the things she had to take with her. So many of the beautiful clothes she'd been given would have to stay. It was difficult to pack without knowing where she was going, so she took her sturdiest everyday clothes and sandals. Then she realized she had nothing to put them in, and the tears threatened to start falling again. A soft knock came from the door before Dharma entered with an unhappy expression. “Pardon, my lady. But we heard the master's voice, and…are you all right?”
Alyra nodded, and the young servant girl rushed into her arms. They hugged until their sobs settled, and then Alyra told the girl her problem. Dharma left and returned a few minutes later with a canvas bag. “Cook uses this when she goes to market. I cleaned it, but it still smells a little of barley.”
“It's fine.” Alyra took the bag and started filling it with her possessions. “I'm sorry I have to leave like this, but…well, I just can't stay.”
“I understand, my lady. We all do. We know it's been difficult for you and the master. We'd hoped you two might hop a broom together, but Cook says sometimes these things just don't work out.”
Alyra nodded, not really wanting to talk about it. “Please take care of yourself and…him.”
“I will, my lady.”
“Alyra. Please, call me Alyra.”
“Yes, ma'am. You take care, too. And don't fret about the master. We'll keep him safe.”
Alyra smiled through her heartache. “I know you will.” She went to her vanity and took the things she needed—a comb, two brushes, a hand mirror, and a pouch of hair ties. She picked up the carving of a sea turtle Horace had given her. Then she put it back down and took up her bag. After another hug, she sent Dharma away.
Alone once more, Alyra set the bag on the floor and reached under her bed. She pulled out the leather satchel that held the tools of her trade. She also felt something else and pulled out a small teakwood box she didn't recognize. Goosebumps rose up and down her arms as she placed the box on her bed, knowing what this had to be. She opened it with baited breath, hoping she was wrong, and exhaled with a noisy sigh when she was not.
A dagger rested on a bed of purple silk. The weapon was gorgeous, the lamplight shimmering along its silver blade. The handle was white ivory carved to resemble a prowling jungle cat. A small scroll bound in red ribbon sat beside the dagger. Her instructions, no doubt, for a mission she didn't want to take. But this is my last chance to do right by the network and possibly alter the fate of the empire.
She closed the box and put it inside her bag along with her tools, feeling the added burden as she slung it over her shoulder. After one last look around the room, she left.
The household staff waited at the bottom of the stairs. Alyra bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling as they quietly spoke their farewells. She silently cursed Dharma's loose tongue even as she melted into one embrace after another. Even Harxes gave her a hearty squeeze as he pressed a small leather purse into her hand. Feeling the coins inside, she tried to give it back. “No, I couldn't. I'm fine, really.”
“Shhhh,” he shushed her. “Take it, my lady.”
She kept her gaze focused straight ahead as she passed the parlor entrance. She thought she heard something from within. Perhaps a glass setting down on a table. Then she was at the front door. Gurita opened it for her. Head down, she left the manor.
Horace reached for the amphora as he heard the front door close. Alyra was gone, possibly for good. He could have tried to stop her. There were a thousand things he might have said to change her mind. Yet he'd chosen to sit in his chair and finish his brandy instead. She made her choice. I never should have believed she could love me. We were too different, and both of us too damned stubborn to change. Why should I choose between her and Byleth? I never asked her to choose. No, she runs off whenever she wants to pursue her mission, but I'm stuck here, cleaning up the mess.
He tipped the jar and frowned when only a trickle rolled out into his glass. He sighed, not wanting this drunk to leave him, especially now. In fact, he might just stay here all night and keep at it. What was the point in sobering up? He knew what awaited him when the mystical spell of the liquor left him. A world of pain, a life without love or friendship. He pictured the rest of his days as one long parade of disappointments and failures until, at last, he succumbed to one of his many enemies. There would be no one to remember him fondly, no loving family to visit his grave.
He was considering a call to Harxes for another jar when a light itch nagged at the back of his head. He tried to brush it away, but the feeling only intensified. It's just the brandy. It'll go away.
Frowning at the traitorous tumbler, he set it down on top of an unlit candle beside the door and went out into the atrium. There was no one there except Gurita standing watch. Horace saluted him with a pleasant chuckle and looked around, wondering why he'd come out here. Then the tickle returned at the nape of his neck. It seemed to want something, and that something was above him. Perhaps the Prophet is calling me home. Wouldn't that serve Alyra right? Me up and dying on the night she leaves me. Oh, to see her face when she finds out. She'd know right away what a mistake she made. Or maybe not. The woman is as stubborn as a…as a…
He stumbled up the stairs, following the lure of the itch that refused to leave him alone. The steps were trickier to navigate than he remembered, but holding tight to the bannister he eventually reached the top. He heard someone moving around downstairs. Probably Cook up late. Or Harxes in the larder doing a midnight tally of the house stores. He's a good man. Better than I deserve, like Mezim. Where would I be without them? I should pay them more. Yes! Starting tomorrow they both get double wages! Not just them. All my servants! Because they're more than just servants. They are my family, the only family I've got.
He pushed open the door to the roof. Like many of the homes in Erugash, his had a flat top. The stars wheeled overhead, brighter than he could remember seeing in a long time. Not since he was a boy and his father had taken him boating out on the bay. That night the stars had seemed like magical companions. Their reflections in the inky water had made it seem like they were sailing across the sky even as the familiar constellations floated overhead. The itch pulled his gaze directly to the queen's palace, rising like a blade of a golden dagger from the city's heart.
Horace noticed, distantly, his heart was beating faster. A film had formed over his eyes, blurring the starlight
into a vast pale haze. A cool feeling enveloped his right hand. He looked down to see he was holding the orb.
It glowed, filling the rooftop with a deep red-gold brilliance. The swirling patterns he'd seen before were more evident now beneath its surface. Horace leaned closer to watch the play of light and shadow inside the sphere. The itch on his neck vanished, and so too did the headache that had been plaguing him all night. He blinked, realizing he was stone-sober all of a sudden, and a cold tingle ran down his spine. What in the names of the saints is happening to me?
The manor shuddered, and the orb nearly fell out of his grasp. Horace clutched it to his chest with one hand while fighting to maintain his balance. Then he felt the swell of power, like a chaos storm had erupted right above him. His teeth rattled as the shaking settled. Horace went to the southern edge of the roof and looked down into the courtyard, half-expecting to see a cadre of robed sorcerers outside his door. There was nothing to see except swaying tree branches, dappled with moonlight. Yet in his head he imagined a vast cyclone of lights swirling above the city.
No, not above the city, he realized. It came from underneath, deep down in the ground. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.
Only stumbling a little, he went back inside to find a drink.
“This reminds me of that time we got conned into protecting that shithole on the border of Haran.” Three Moons swatted at an insect buzzing around his head. “What was it called? Poleez or something like that. You remember we were stuck inside those walls with that urban militia. We hated each other's guts something fierce. Then most of our crew came down with a flux, just shitting and puking their guts out for days. And that's when the raiders decided to hit the town, of course. Had us surrounded for two whole days. We nearly ended up with our heads on sticks before we broke out of there.”
