by Jon Sprunk
“So what's she like?”
Lord Mulcibar looked up. He had been gazing into the floor for the last several minutes. “Pardon?”
“The queen. What is she like in person?”
The nobleman cleared his throat. “She is a goddess in the flesh. Without peer. Flawless.”
Horace hadn't expected such a fervent response, but he'd heard that the heathens of this land worshipped many things. Why not their rulers? “Is there a king, too?”
“Queen Byleth inherited the throne from her father and has not yet married. She is betrothed, however.”
“Byleth. That's a pretty name.”
Lord Mulcibar gave a raspy chuckle. “Pray you don't say as much to Her Exalted Highness in court.”
Horace smiled. Despite the shackles, he liked this man, who didn't treat him like an animal. But this summons had him worried. He'd never been in the presence of royalty before, although his father had once had the honor of presenting a new ship-of-the-line to King Fervold. Horace had been only four years old at the time, but he still remembered the blustery autumn day and how his mother had cried. Tears of pride, she'd said afterward.
An idea occurred to Horace. “Can you teach me to say hello in your tongue?”
“You would say sobhe'etu, which means ‘the evening is well.’”
Horace whispered the phrase to himself until he had it memorized. He was hoping that being able to speak a little of their language would make these people see him in a more favorable light. And their tongue was, he had to admit, quite interesting, nothing at all like any of the languages of the western realms.
The sedan stopped, and a sharp knock rapped against the door. Lord Mulcibar got up, his face contorting into a mask of pain as he stood. The door was opened by a young footman in purple livery. Mulcibar went to exit but paused before leaving the car. “One piece of advice. Be honest. Many have tried to dissemble with Her Majesty, and they all paid for it.”
Horace mulled those words as he followed the nobleman out. A dozen guardsmen surrounded them as they exited. The soldiers appeared ill at ease, as if expecting trouble, but Horace couldn't imagine what danger he might pose while shackled. He followed Lord Mulcibar's slow footsteps across the courtyard of red bricks, which was bounded by walls at least thirty feet high. A wide set of stairs at the end of the courtyard rose to the base of the breathtaking pyramid he had seen from outside the city. Horace didn't know whether it was a palace or a temple, as it had the features of both, consisting of several immense square tiers stacked on top of each other, narrowing in size as they rose toward the sky. Made entirely of polished white stone, the edifice gleamed like the blade of a knife under the hot sun. The roof of the top tier was sheathed in gold.
“It's unbelievable,” he said, but neither Lord Mulcibar nor the soldiers escorting them acted as if they'd heard.
They ascended the outer stairs and walked along the flat top of the lowest tier, eventually arriving at a set of tall doors. They were bronze, dark with age, their coffered panels cast with images of animals and people in minute detail. Some of the faces were only as big as his thumbnails, but they were rendered with such skill that Horace could make out their expressions perfectly. Most of the figures were depicted venerating larger, more beautiful people, though whether these giants were meant to be gods or rulers Horace could not say. Considering what Lord Mulcibar had told him about the queen, he supposed they could be both. Huge columns flanked the doors; the stone pillars were painted deep blue like the ocean.
More soldiers opened the door and stood at strict attention while the entourage filed inside. There was no sign of the yellow tabards Horace had seen at the city gates, and he wondered if the colors designated different branches of soldiery.
The chamber beyond was monumental on a scale Horace had never seen before. The ceiling was so high it felt like stepping into another open-air courtyard. He half-expected to see clouds drifting above him. More pillars, these painted light blue, supported the titanic span. The center of the chamber was dominated by a garden of vibrant flowers and small trees. Intoxicating perfumes wafted in the air. Huge pictures were carved into the walls in bas-relief, portraying enormous people—mostly men—with long, curly beards and open wings. Were they supposed to be angels? If so, they bore little resemblance to the celestial beings Horace had seen in the cathedrals and churches of his homeland. These figures were more imperious in their stance, not cherubic in the least. One panel showed a line of chariots rolling over an army of smaller figures. Another showed scenes of daily life—farmers planting and harvesting, ranchers herding cattle, miners digging.
Horace tried to take it all in as the soldiers and Lord Mulcibar led him through the chamber. There were some people milling around in small clusters, men mainly. They turned to watch as he was paraded past. Some of their expressions were not kind.
That's right. Gawk at the evil foreigner.
They passed through a wide corridor. Full-body portraits were painted on the walls and outlined in vibrant mosaics. By their golden regalia, he took them for kings and queens. Some of the paintings looked quite old. The light from the grand chamber was lost behind them and was replaced by burning flambeaux set in bronze cressets on the walls. He also spotted small holes, like narrow windows, near the ceiling. He wasn't sure what they were for—arrow loops for hidden archers?—until he noticed that the smoke from the torches was sucked out through the holes in some kind of ventilation system. It took him by surprise. He'd come to believe, through tales told to him by others and what he'd read in public bills, that the Akeshians were a backward people whose recent conquests were the result of mindless ferocity and a lack of respect for human life. Yet some of the things he'd seen already in his short time here were quite innovative.
The procession halted before another pair of immense doors. Horace had trouble swallowing when he saw the tall valves reflecting in the torchlight. Like the top of this building, they appeared to be made from gold. He tried estimating how much they must weigh and what each of them would be worth just based on their material alone, but the numbers staggered his imagination.
Two men stood in front of the doors with their arms crossed. They were perhaps in their midtwenties and so alike in appearance—the same style of tight-fitting robe across their muscled shoulders and chests, long skirts, and black as squid ink from collar to hem—that he thought they must be related. Then he looked closer. They had to be twins. One had short, dark hair, spiked in the front, while the other wore his hair long and shaggy.
Lord Mulcibar spoke with the men. Horace couldn't hear what was said, but the two brothers turned and made pushing motions with their hands. The hairs on the back of Horace's neck stood up as the huge doors opened. No one stood behind the doors, no straining slaves or apparatus that he could see. It looked as if the men had opened them with a mere gesture.
More sorcery.
Horace's manacles clinked as the procession started moving again. Beyond the doors was another chamber. He had thought the entry chamber was huge, but the one before him dwarfed it in every aspect. He stood on what looked like an acre of white marble. Rows of colossal pillars festooned with golden scrollwork marched down the sides of the hall. Sunlight poured down from dozens of skylights to illuminate a raised platform at the far end of the chamber. The platform, like the palace itself, had several tiers. A squad of soldiers stood along the bottom, their features hidden behind full helmets. Above them sat twelve old men in somber scarlet robes. A magnificent ivory-and-gold throne rested on the highest tier. The seat was vacant. Behind it, a purple curtain spanned the entire back wall.
A crowd waited in the chamber, all bedecked in splendid apparel and jewels. The men favored elaborate tunics with short capes. The women were garbed in long, flowing dresses that, despite being sheer where the fabric wasn't gathered, were almost plain in comparison with the men's attire. The women also wore pigments around their eyes in a variety of shades. Everyone moved out of the way as the twin
s entered at the head of the procession. Horace didn't flinch from the glances cast in his direction as he was marched into the hall. A cool draft circulated through the chamber, such as he had experienced at Lord Isiratu's palace. He sighed as the sweat dried off him.
By the Almighty, what a blessing! I know the True Church doesn't truck with sorcery, but it might make an exception for this.
As Horace swallowed the tiny blasphemy of his thoughts, he noticed a familiar face. Lord Isiratu stood at the foot of the platform, flanked by his son Ubar and Nasir. Ubar wore the same quizzical expression he'd shown often during the trek to Erugash. Yet both Lord Isiratu and Nasir stood stone-faced like first-day recruits being reviewed by the High Marshal of the King's Army.
The robed twins ascended to the step just below the empty throne and turned to face the throng. As they looked down from this height, Horace felt an uncomfortable stirring in his gut. Tingles ran across his scalp and down the back of his neck, and all of a sudden the chain binding his wrists felt ten times heavier, as if the manacles were pulling him down to the floor. He strained, breathing through gritted teeth, to remain upright.
The heaviness vanished as the curtain parted and two people emerged, a man and a woman walking arm in arm. The man was draped in a white silk tunic, open at the chest to reveal a large golden amulet in the shape of a blazing sun. Yet it was the woman who drew Horace's attention. A purple silk gown covered her from the neck down. The sheer fabric clung to her body so that even the mere act of walking was transformed into a thing of beauty. Tearing his gaze away from her outfit, Horace looked to her face and was enthralled all over again. Her features were narrow, refined in a way he'd only seen in paintings, but her eyes were wide and dark, outlined in black kohl. Her rich, midnight hair was braided and piled in a tower atop her head, the plaits interwoven with slender gold chains in a look both stunning and demure at the same time. This could be no one other than the queen of Erugash. The entire crowd fell to its knees, lords and ladies alike, as she took her place on the throne. The man sat on a smaller chair beside her.
Horace didn't have time to decide whether or not he should kneel. The nearest soldiers seized his arms and shoved him down on the floor. His face pressed to the stone, he held himself rigid in anger, until clothing rustled and people began to rise. Horace tried to push himself from the floor, but the soldiers continued to hold him down. He struggled in their grasp, but they were too strong, and he was hampered by the chains.
He ceased fighting when the queen spoke in a cool, clear voice. Then the soldiers pulled Horace to his feet. He yanked his arms from their grasp. Everyone was watching him again, staring like he was an oddity at a village faire.
“Master Horace,” Lord Mulcibar said, “the queen wishes to know how you came to this land and under what intentions.”
Horace gazed up at her again. His embarrassment fell away, and the only thing he could think about was her. He answered at once. “Sobhe'etu…”
He hesitated, realizing he had forgotten to ask the proper way to address a queen in this land. So he uttered the first thing that came to mind. “…Your Excellence. I was a crewman aboard a ship out of Arnos. We were hit by a storm and driven south. Then the ship went under, and I washed up on your shore.”
“What was your vessel's mission?”
“We were carrying soldiers to Etonia to fight the heath—”
Lord Mulcibar spoke in Akeshian, but every eye was on Horace. “Yes,” the nobleman said when he had finished translating. “To fight whom?”
“Your people, my lord.” Horace braced himself. He had decided to be honest with these people. If they were magicians, they might know he was lying and hold it against him. If he was going to hang, he would go to the gallows telling the truth.
No one seemed surprised when Mulcibar translated his answer. The queen spoke at some length. Meanwhile, the man sitting beside her reclined in his seat, looking uninterested, and drank from a golden cup.
Lord Mulcibar turned back to Horace. “Her Radiant Majesty asks if you know where Lord Isiratu was taking you before I arrived. Be aware that the other slaves have already been interrogated, and any lie will be punished most harshly.”
Horace tried to recall the name of the town where he'd heard they were going, but it escaped him. “I think it was Nissa or something like that.”
“Do you mean Nisus?” Lord Mulcibar asked.
“Yes, that's it.”
As the nobleman interpreted, soft murmurs rippled through the crowd. Lord Isiratu burst out in a barrage of angry words. The queen lifted a finger, and Isiratu shut his mouth, his face purple and shining with sweat. The queen's expression remained neutral, though still lovely. Horace noticed how the black jewels in her golden necklace complemented her eyes.
“Are you quite sure?” Lord Mulcibar asked. “Lord Isiratu was taking you to the city of Nisus?”
Horace shifted his weight, and the chains clinked. “That's what I was told. Something about giving us to a temple.”
Lord Mulcibar spoke to the queen at some length. Horace couldn't make out enough to give him a gist of what was being discussed. Yet, by their expressions, and the heated look on Isiratu's face, it was something bad. Finally, the queen stood up and spoke to the hall. Her words carried a heavy finality that leaked through despite the language barrier. When she was done, two soldiers came forth and flanked Lord Isiratu. The nobleman bowed to the queen and then walked away with the soldiers. His son and Nasir followed behind. As he was escorted out, Lord Isiratu shot a hard glance at Horace. Ubar nodded to him as if nothing had happened. Nasir ignored him completely.
Horace sidled a few steps closer to Mulcibar. “What just happened?”
“Lord Isiratu has been found guilty of disloyalty to the crown. He is stripped of lands and title, and will henceforth be demoted to the hekatatum caste.”
Horace looked back over his shoulder where Lord Isiratu and his retinue were leaving the chamber. “What are heka—whatever you said?”
“They are the warrior society of Akeshia. It is not a dishonorable path for those of common birth, but for a zoanii such as Isiratu…”
It's a fall from grace, and a hard one. “What will happen to his family?”
“Most will accompany him in his lesser station. His heir, Lord Ubar, may be taken in by another zoanii family as a ward. With time and patience, he may yet achieve a dignified rank.”
The atmosphere in the hall had turned taciturn with the ejection of Isiratu, but the queen behaved as if nothing had happened. She asked a question, and Mulcibar translated, “Her Glorious Radiance wishes to hear your account of the storm that struck Lord Isiratu's caravan.”
A cold sweat formed on Horace's forehead and under his clothes. He'd been avoiding those memories in his own mind because he didn't understand what had happened, and part of him didn't ever want to know. He considered lying or faking forgetfulness but then recalled Lord Mulcibar's advice. Be honest. Many have tried to dissemble with Her Majesty, and they all paid for it.
So he told the story as best as he was able to remember, until he got to the part where Isiratu fell. “With all honesty,” he said, “I can't explain what happened after that. I felt a surge of energy like my heart was going to burst. Then the next thing I knew, the storm was gone.”
As Lord Mulcibar interpreted, the queen watched Horace with a fierce intensity that made him uncomfortable. He'd never been timid with the fairer sex, but this woman radiated power. Once Mulcibar was done, the old men seated on the platform's middle tier spoke among themselves, and conversation broke out among those in the hall. Horace itched to know what they were saying about him. It was maddening to be surrounded by chatter and not be able to understand it. But he did catch two words being passed around: zoanii and amenakru, the latter of which may have meant “enemy,” but he wasn't sure.
The queen appeared about to say something, but a loud voice rang out from the crowd. People parted, making way for a tall man in a silver breastpla
te over a purple silk chiton. His complexion was darker than many in the crowd, almost coppery. His hair and eyebrows were jet black. He wore a sword at his side; the pommel gleamed with a ruby the size of a knucklebone. The tall man continued to speak, throwing his words at the throne even as he stared in Horace's direction.
Before Horace could ask what was happening, Lord Mulcibar said, “That is Prince Zazil, brother to the queen and commander of the royal legions. He has asked why the savage foreigner—you—has been allowed into this hallowed hall. And Her Majesty replied that she wished to see you in person.”
Horace rubbed his wrists where the manacles were chafing. “I take it he doesn't like my people much.”
“Considering that His Highness has spent the last several years fighting on the frontier, I surmise you would be correct. Tread carefully, Master Horace. The prince is not one to cross.”
Not that I have much choice, chained up and surrounded.
While the prince continued his tirade, Horace noticed something. It was subtle, but Lord Mulcibar inched forward, placing himself between Horace and the prince.
The queen spoke, and the prince fell quiet, though he cast a menacing glare at Horace. Lord Mulcibar bowed before translating. “The prince, has expressed a wish to test the foreign devil—ah, you again—in a duel. But the queen is more interested in hearing your story. Her Majesty asks how she can be sure you are not a spy. Your arrival on our shores, the lone survivor of your ship, is very convenient. Not to mention your abilities.”