by Jon Sprunk
He tried to wrap his mind around her possible motivations. He discarded love right away. Byleth was no naive debutante. She played at seduction the way a cat toys with mice. Another bell passed by, and still he had no idea what the queen wanted from him. However he did come to one realization. If she needs me badly enough, maybe I can use that to help Jirom.
He wished he knew where Alyra was this very moment. He felt lost without her. Even fighting with her was better than being alone. Maybe that's a side of love I've never known before. Maybe it doesn't always need to be peaceful. Did she leave because I didn't fight hard enough to keep her?
He jumped when the door opened but then breathed a sigh of relief as Mezim walked in. He hadn't seen his secretary in person since they returned to the city. “What's going on?”
Mezim bowed from the waist. “I have been sent to fetch you.”
All the warmth left Horace's body. Trying to mask his apprehension, he started toward the door. However, Mezim held out his hands. “My apologies, but I am ordered to take the weapon.”
Horace looked down at the sword at his side. So they don't expect me to take my own life. Is that because no one believes I possess the honor necessary to carry it out? Maybe they're right.
He took off the weapon with care and handed it over. Mezim accepted it with another bow. Horace opened his mouth, thinking to give some last command as First Sword, some way he could make things better. But nothing came to mind. “Mezim, I think you'd better go home.”
“I will accompany you—”
“Not this time. I'll handle this. Whatever happens, you're not to involve yourself. Understood?”
The secretary nodded, his face impassive. Horace patted him on the shoulder before he strode out the door, into the hall where Lord Xantu and Lady Anshara awaited. The lady made a nod in his direction. Xantu simply indicated for Horace to come along. He did, walking between the two bodyguards. An entire platoon of the Queen's Guard closed in behind them.
His escort took him down the central stairs to the main audience chamber. The huge golden doors were open when they arrived. The coolness of the audience hall wafted over Horace as he entered. Members of the upper castes stood along both sides of the hall, leaving a broad aisle clear to the dais where the queen already waited.
Horace tried to gauge the mood of the assembly as he approached the throne, but the faces turned to him were impassive. That was something about the Akeshian culture he hadn't been able to breech, their ability to convey entire conversations just through gestures and expressions, or hide their thoughts so completely when they wanted. Byleth was no different. Wearing a long white gown that left her arms bare, her hair piled up in a tower bedecked with golden chains and jewels, she looked every bit a queen. She sat, hands resting on the arms of her throne, eyes focused on him.
Horace stopped a few paces from the bottom step of the dais and made a formal bow. He was considering whether he should go down on one knee or make some other obeisance when the queen addressed him. “Lord Horace, take your place with us.”
He glanced up in surprise and saw a slight upturn of the queen's lips as she indicated a spot to her left. Horace climbed the marble steps, careful not trip, and turned to stand beside the queen. Maybe she's not angry with me. Maybe I can escape this with my hide intact—
His composure threatened to buckle as a square of soldiers marched into the audience chamber. The stomp of forty nailed boots sent loud echoes throughout the hall, amid the chorus of jingling mail and the rhythmic stamp of their spear butts on the floor. In their midst were two prisoners. Horace swallowed against the painful knot that had formed in his throat.
Jirom and the rebel leader, Emanon, stood in the center of the formation. Iron collars around their necks were joined to wrist manacles by lengths of heavy chain. Likewise their feet were shackled together. Both men sported numerous bruises, Jirom also having terrible burn marks across his head. Emanon's wounds seemed more concentrated on his body, and he walked with a shambling limp. Yet, despite their injuries, both men stood tall as if this were a parade in their honor. Jirom's eyes locked on Horace, and he swallowed again.
The platoon leader held out a long, curved sword in a beautiful scabbard adorned with gold filigree. Lord Xantu took the weapon and presented it to the queen. “Queen Byleth, I present the leaders of the slaves who so heinously rebelled against your divine rule. And also this assurana blade, which was found with these men. It belonged to Kapikul Hazael of House Tanunak, who was slain at the Battle of Omikur.”
“Kill them, my queen!”
The shout rang out through the hall, and other voices rose to match it, raking the captives with vicious threats. Jirom stood quietly, still staring at Horace. The other man laughed out loud and was clubbed in the face by a soldier. Spitting blood, he wobbled for a moment but remained on his feet. Horace tore his eyes away from the prisoners to watch Byleth. She sat calmly, saying nothing for a few heartbeats. Then she lifted a hand, and the crowd fell silent.
“We thank you, Lord Xantu, for these prizes. By the efforts of our most trusted servants…” Byleth turned her head slightly in Horace's direction. “…the rebellion has been crushed. For their actions, the captives will be put to death.”
Appreciative noises rose from the crowd. Horace could imagine what cruel tortures they were devising in their heads for these men who had dared to fight against the natural order. It made him burn with anger, which combined with the frustration in his stomach to make an unsettling brew. He could feel Jirom's gaze upon him, as if willing him to do something. Horace couldn't take it. “Excellence, may I speak?”
Byleth gestured to him. “Very well.”
Horace struggled to find the words. “Your Excellence, I was not born in this country. I do not understand all of your customs, nor am I an expert in your laws. However, it would seem to me that executing these men would not serve Your Excellency's best interests.”
Angry voices called out from the assemblage, but the queen quieted them with a look. “Continue.”
“I was myself a slave, as I'm sure you recall. I remember the hopelessness and degradation that haunted my steps during those days. Yet there are people in your city who have spent years in bondage. Even their entire lives. Is it any wonder some of them chose to take up arms and fight to be free?” He looked out over the crowd, at the sea of seething faces. “Wouldn't any of us do the same if we were the ones in chains? If we saw our families bought and sold like property? Is there a single person here who wouldn't kill, or even die, to stop that from happening?”
“He's a traitor!” a man shouted from the back.
“Let him share their fate!” a woman called out.
The shouting began anew, so loud Horace couldn't make himself heard again. He searched for someone—anyone—who might join him in protesting this judgment. Yet he only saw condemnation. “Excellence, please,” he said. “They have fought for their freedom. At least allow them the chance to fight for their lives.”
The queen stared at him for several seconds. Then she stood up. A hush fell over the crowd. “These men,” she said, “are sentenced to the Grand Arena, where they will fight to the death for our amusement. Take them from our sight!”
Cheers resounded from the nobles as the captives were dragged away. Jirom held his ground for a moment as two guardsmen pulled on his arms. Then he spat on the floor and let them haul him out.
“Put us against some of your pretty soldiers, Majesty!” Emanon shouted as he was wrestled toward the door. “We'll send them back in bloody pieces!”
Horace's legs shook so he could hardly stand. This was his fault. He'd had a chance to help Jirom and the slaves at Sekhatun. He could have defied the queen's command. Yet he'd stood by and allowed this to happen. Jirom's blood was on his hands. His stomach clenched, threatening to bring up his breakfast. He clutched the back of the throne for support, not caring about propriety. Fortunately, the queen didn't seem to notice as she walked out the hall, with
Lord Xantu following in tow.
Horace took deep breaths to try to calm his stomach. His head ached again, bad enough he wanted to lie down. He didn't notice Lady Anshara standing behind him until she called to him. “Her Majesty would like a word in private.”
I'll bet she does. Going to dress me down behind closed doors. Maybe I'll be back in chains before the day is through. Not that I deserve any better. I let Jirom and the slaves down, so now I should join them.
As the audience chamber emptied, Horace followed the lady out the back. The queen and Lord Xantu waited in the corridor. Royal guards flanked them. Horace kept a tight rein on his uneasy stomach as he bowed. “Your Excellence.”
“I have decided to remove you from the office of First Sword, Lord Horace. Tomorrow at daybreak you will leave the city.”
Again?
“The army of our enemies has crossed the Typhon River,” she continued. “You will stop them by any means within your power. This is your final chance to convince us that you remain our loyal servant.”
Horace didn't have the will to argue. It wouldn't do him any good, in any case. He'd once believed his elevation to the zoanii caste was an accolade, a reward for his services. Now he realized it was a leash. An invisible collar. He might have a nice home and fine clothes, servants, and all the rest, but he was still a slave.
“But tonight,” Byleth said, “you will escort us to the Grand Arena where we shall watch the end of the rebellion together.”
Horace bowed again. “As you wish, Excellence.”
She stepped closer. “I think I like this side of you better. Perhaps when you return from your mission, we shall find more…pleasant…ways for you to serve us.”
He said nothing as she walked away, surrounded by her guards. He waited until they disappeared up a flight of stairs, then left in the opposite direction. He needed to talk to someone, and only one name came to mind.
He didn't exactly know where to find Lord Astaptah, but he'd heard plenty of rumors about the vizier's personal chambers under the palace's foundation. Many of those rumors also speculated about the nefarious things Lord Astaptah did in those subterranean chambers, but Horace had no reason to believe them. The man had saved his life at great personal risk, and he knew the royal court like few others.
He went deeper into the palace. Once past the outer ring of halls, the natural light dwindled, and the corridors were illuminated by torches in iron cressets.
As Horace turned down a corridor he hoped would take him to the central section, a pair of young slaves stopped and bowed low.
“Pardon me,” he said. “Can you tell me how to get to Lord Astaptah's quarters?”
The slaves exchanged a glance, and then both shook their heads. “Neh, Belum,” they said in unison.
“I think,” one said, with obvious hesitation, “there is a door.” He pointed the way from which they had come. “Straight until this hallway ends. And then take two right turns. But the way is unlit.”
“Kanadu.” Horace nodded to them and proceeded on his way.
The corridor went on a good deal longer than he expected before ending in a junction. He turned right and stepped into a dark hallway. As the slave had said, there were no torches on the walls here, nor any brackets to hold them. Those who came this way were expected to bring their own illumination. He concentrated to channel trickles of Imuvar and Girru, and a ball of blue light appeared above him. It hovered over his shoulder as he continued on his search.
This hallway was shorter, running only about twenty paces before it arrived at an intersection. He started turning to his right when a looming figure emerged from the darkness ahead. Horace recoiled, both hands coming up before he recognized the other. “Lord Astaptah! I was just on my way to see you.”
The vizier stopped and peered at him from down his long nose. “Lord Horace. This meeting is propitious, for I was coming to call upon you as well.”
“Oh? What did you need with me?”
They walked back in the direction Horace had just come. The vizier had a long stride, forcing Horace to take quicker steps.
“I have just been informed of your return to the city,” Lord Astaptah said. “And the events in Sekhatun. I was coming to inquire about your health. I heard there was a battle.”
“That's what I was coming to see you about.” Horace told Astaptah about his role in the fighting and how he tried to parlay with the rebels. He left out that he knew Jirom from before, not sure how the vizier would look upon a ranking member of the queen's court having such a tie to the slaves. “And now the leaders of the rebellion are sentenced to die, and I feel like it's my fault. The queen should—”
“Be wary, Lord Horace. It is not wise to presume to judge the actions of Her Majesty. Especially here at the seat of her power.”
“I'm sorry, but these men don't deserve death. They were only fighting for the right to be free, the same as any—”
“If that is how you feel,” Lord Astaptah interrupted him again, “then you must do your utmost to stop these executions.”
Horace almost tripped. He had been prepared for anything. A rebuke to mind his betters. Or a lecture about the duty of the people to obey their ruler. Anything except agreement. “I'm pleased to hear you say that. So…how do I go about that? Without insulting the queen and losing my head, that is.”
“With extraordinary care. Her Majesty is beset by many enemies. If you oppose her directly, she will strike you down as surely as the night falls. When I was a student, my hasseba—my teacher—set a task for me. Every morning I had to catch a toad from the river and throttle it with my bare hands, and then bring the dead creature to my teacher as proof of the deed.”
Horace tried to get the image of Lord Astaptah wringing a toad's neck out of his mind. “Uh, I'm not sure what you're getting at. Are you saying I should let Jir—the rebel leaders die?”
“I did not finish my tale. On the third morning, I brought no toad, and my teacher beat me quite viciously. The next morning before dawn, I went to his house and killed him in his sleep.”
A chill ran up Horace's spine. He didn't know how to respond to that.
They had reached the corridor junction. Horace stepped into the torchlight, but Lord Astaptah stopped at the edge of the darkened passage. “Every so often, Horace, we come to a moment when the decisions we make will impact the rest of our lives. When such a time comes, the most important thing is to be true to yourself. Or else you will be lost forever.”
Horace nodded and started to reply, but Lord Astaptah's footsteps retreated into the darkness, leaving him alone once again.
“I'll keep that in mind,” Horace whispered under his breath.
With hurried steps he made his way back to the sunlit portion of the palace.
The roar of the crowd brought back memories, none of them good. The Grand Arena. Its vast oval pit covered in sand, soaked with the blood of countless men, women, and children. The torches along the top of the stadium with their crimson tongues waving in the cool evening breezes. Even the stars high above. They all conspired to remind him of that night not so long ago when he had stood in the pit below and fought for his life.
“Horace.”
He turned as Byleth entered the wooden box. She wore a floor-length kalasiris gown in dark green that, despite covering everything except her head and arms, showed off every curve. A fan-shaped neckpiece of gold plates complemented her other jewelry, the rings and earrings and bangles. Horace made a bow as she slinked into the throne at the front of the box. At her nod, he sat in the chair to her right. Lord Xantu and Lady Anshara stood behind them. It was to be an intimate affair, by royal standards.
Sitting beside the queen, he wore a neutral expression like a mask. It was the only defense he had against the conflict brewing inside him. He knew what was expected of him tonight, to sit at Byleth's side while his friend died. He told himself there was nothing he could do, with the queen and her bodyguards and all the zoanii in the other elevated
boxes around the arena, any of them ready to burn him to ashes if he so much as raised a finger in Jirom's defense. But he wouldn't hesitate for a moment if it were you, and you know it.
That knowledge pained him most of all. It shattered every excuse he tried to use to convince himself that the situation wasn't hopeless.
A line of drums below the royal box rumbled to life, filling the stadium with a thunderous roll. One of the pit gates opened, and a procession entered the fighting area. They were priests and priestesses of Tammuz, wearing their white death garb, complete with dark iron masks. The people in the stands took to their feet and touched their foreheads. Even the queen. Horace stood out of respect but kept his hands by his side.
“I want you to know, Lord Horace,” Byleth said as she sat back down. “Your loyalty means a great deal to me. There are not many I can fully trust. I hope I can count on you.”
“You can, Excellence. But if you expect me to fall on my sword, I can tell you right now—”
“Perish the thought! I removed you as First Sword because the role never suited you. After you deal with the Nisusi, you'll return to Erugash as my High Vizier.”
“I'm not sure I'm the man for the job.” He paused before adding. “With all due respect, Your Excellence.”
She gazed around the arena, seeming to take delight in the crowd of people preparing to witness their blood sport. “And why is that?”
“I'm not sure we share the same vision for the future.”
Her laughter grated on his raw nerves. “Oh, Horace. Why do you persist in believing there is justice in the world? Honor, duty, justice. These are merely words we who rule devised in order to enslave our inferiors in webs of conflicting desires. Even the gods cannot be bothered to punish the wicked or reward the righteous. The rebellion is over, and balance is restored to the realm.”
Horace struggled to form a reply that wouldn't get him executed, but he was spared by a sudden roar from the stands. A party of gladiators had emerged onto the sand. The pit fighters were outfitted in a variety of armors and helms to resemble different cultures. There was even a “western soldier” in mail with a shortsword and round shield. They lifted their weapons to the multitude while they paraded around.
