by Jon Sprunk
Rimesh reached into the pocket sewn into the lining of his robe and pulled out a silver tube. Its ends were sealed with golden wax and impressed with the Primarch's personal sigil. He extended it to Kadamun, who took it with a shaking hand. Rimesh waited as the high priest opened the tube and spilled out the rolled papyrus inside.
Kadamun's lips moved as he read the message. When he lowered it, his face was pinched with anger. “This gives you authority over all temple matters in Erugash. Is this how the Primarch replaces me? With a fiat delivered by the hands of my successor? Will you see me killed, too, or shall I be carted off to some abbey in the desert to live out my last years?”
“There's no call for dramatics, Your Luminance. I am not here to replace you.” He put his fingers together in a steeple. “But I will use every ounce of that sanction to root out this evil. And I will crush any obstacle that gets in my way. I trust I am making myself clear.”
“Quite. Yet there is little I can tell you on the matter. Yes, there are rumors, but I served in the temples at Yuldir and Epur in my younger days, and there are always rumors of one kind or another. As high priest, I have endeavored to rein in Her Majesty's more unbecoming vices, and been moderately successful, if I may say so. But a cult to the Old Ones here in Erugash? No, I cannot conceive of it.”
Rimesh stood up. “That is why the Primarch sent me. You will make all of your staff available to me. You will also pass along that my instructions are not to be countermanded by anyone, under any circumstances, save by the direct order of His Primacy.”
The high priest rose slowly to his feet. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. This savage in the queen's possession.”
“What of him?”
“I want you to issue a decree declaring him a blasphemer and an enemy of the empire. He is to be remanded to the temple at once for investigation.”
The high priest's eyebrows climbed his forehead. “That will cause some problems, Menarch. The foreigner—”
“He's an abomination before the eyes of Amur and all of heaven!” Rimesh took a breath to calm himself. “Forgive me, Your Luminance. I know that you revere the sacred zoana as much as I do. Its divinity cannot be permitted to exist within a savage such as this. It is an affront to both our lord and our empire.”
“Of course. Yet Byleth is still queen of Erugash, regardless of the armistice. Unless you intend to seize the palace by force, issuing such a decree will do no good.”
Rimesh scratched his chin to give the slightest impression that he was considering just such a course of action. “In that case, I withdraw my suggestion.”
The relief that passed across the old priest's face would have been comical if it wasn't so pathetic. Yet he bowed with grace. “As you wish.”
When the high priest exited the room, Rimesh went back to the window. The day was getting hotter. The sun's rays struck the palace, reflecting off its golden summit. He had prepared his entire adult life for this assignment, groomed with years of schooling and then sent into the field as a chaplain in the imperial legions. All for this moment. If he could tie Queen Byleth to the worship of the Dark Ones, the people would rise up and he could reverse four hundred years of temple abuse at the hands of the zoanii.
He looked down to the people in the streets, so far below they looked like insects crawling through a warren of tunnels.
I do this for all of us, so that we may be free.
The suit was black silk, so smooth and glossy it looked like it had been spun by faeryland spiders. The sleeves and legs were puffy like cavalry breeches, but the fabric gathered tight at his wrists with black leather bracers and around his waist with a matching belt. Gold studs—real gold, not fake or plated steel—accented the bracers and belt. A long, black cape and knee-high boots completed the ensemble.
Horace held out his arms, feeling like a prince while a servant brushed his shoulders.
Or a man impersonating a prince.
“Tidru hisi kapparantu, belum?” the chief tailor asked as he held up a plate-sized mirror.
Horace nodded, still not believing what he saw in its wavy depths. “It's extraordinary, if that's what you're asking.”
The tailor snapped his fingers, and his assistants gathered up their implements and left. Horace stood alone in his apartment, afraid to sit down or brush against anything for fear of marring his suit. Tonight was the queen's party, which he would soon be attending. He had hoped Alyra would be here to attend to him. She had a talent for calming him, something he could really use right now, but she had been called away. Horace played with his collar, trying to get more air. This entire affair was surreal. His country was at war with Akeshia, yet in a few minutes he was going to a fancy gala on the arm of its queen.
He started to look for a drink—preferably something with a lot of alcohol—when the front door opened. He hurried to the foyer hoping it was Alyra, but instead a short, stooped man with a cane limped through the door.
“Lord Mulcibar,” Horace said. “It's good to see you again.”
“Good evening, Master Horace. I trust you are well?”
Horace held out his arms. “What do you think?”
Lord Mulcibar leaned on his cane as he examined Horace's attire. “I think you have a come a long way from being a slave. May we sit a moment?”
Horace ushered the nobleman into the parlor, and they reclined on the soft divans. “Can I offer you anything, my lord? A drink?”
“No, thank you. We don't have much time. The Queen's Guard will be here momentarily to escort you, but I wanted a chance to speak with you first.”
“Of course. I hoped I'd see you as well. Can you shed some light on what's happening? I feel like a carpenter's apprentice handling his first hammer.”
“Master Horace, I'm afraid you are in extreme danger.”
Horace's stomach flipped over. He had feared that something was wrong, that he was being set up for a big fall. “How so?”
“Erugash balances on the edge of a precipice. On one side there is the queen—may she live forever—and arrayed against her are a variety of forces. The royal court is a pit of vipers, all vying to be Her Majesty's favorite. It's a never-ending game of deception, shifting alliances, and betrayal. Then there is the temple of the Sun God, never satisfied no matter how deep its tentacles have sunk into this city's affairs. And you are caught in the middle of it.”
Horace rubbed his palms together. “I didn't ask to be.”
“Of course not. You were simply unaware, and it's no wonder. Zoanii who have played this game all their lives can fall prey to their competitors at any moment. What should concern you is a plot that, I believe, is aimed at supplanting the queen herself.”
Horace started to pace the floor. “How does this involve me? I don't know anyone at court, except for you and the queen.”
“I don't know. I have been chasing down this particular scheme for a long time, but I'm afraid I know little except that they want to use your arrival in Erugash to their advantage.”
“What do they want?”
“As far as I can tell, they want the queen dispatched.”
Horace stopped pacing and faced Mulcibar. “You mean they aim to kill her.”
“Assassination attempts are not uncommon. And oftentimes those caught in the line of fire are the first to die.”
Horace thought of Alyra and was suddenly worried about her prolonged absence. “So what should I do?”
“Conduct yourself as normal. However, if there is an attempt on Her Majesty's life, it will be sudden and lethal. I advise that you defend yourself with any and all means.”
Horace frowned as he walked around the divan. He knew where this was going. “I don't know how to control the power. Even if I did, this isn't my concern. No offense, Lord Mulcibar, but I was a captive yesterday, and a slave not long before that.”
A loud knock sounded from the foyer.
Lord Mulcibar stood up. “That is all true. I won't try to convince you that the queen is one of
your saints, but we are involved in an internal war, Master Horace. You may not have asked to be set down in the middle of it, but that's where you find yourself. As I see it, you have two choices. You can run, and likely find yourself back in a dungeon cell, if not executed.”
Horace's hands, which had been dry only a minute ago, were now damp with sweat. He fought the urge to wipe them on his fine pants. “What's my other option?”
“Pick a side, Master Horace, and hold on tight.”
The door opened, and the two officers of the Queen's Guard entered. Lord Mulcibar paused on his way out and leaned close to the elder soldier. Some words were exchanged, and the soldier nodded. Horace followed them out.
The soldiers remained at a respectful distance as they escorted him down the broad corridor toward a flight of stairs. In his few forays through the palace, Horace had come to glimpse how mammoth it was and could only imagine the amount of effort it must have taken to build.
They arrived at a chamber that was every bit as large as the audience hall, if not larger. Hundreds of tiny lights illuminated the high walls and the graceful curves of the vaulted ceiling. At first Horace thought the lights were candles, but he passed by a cluster at the doorway and saw that the lights were wavering tongues of energy without wick or taper, just hovering against the stonework like a cloud of fireflies. He was whisked into the grand chamber before he could study them, and then the new sights inside drew his attention.
Lit by the spectral lights, the entire room had a magical atmosphere. Gold accents glittered on every decoration. The walls were painted with frescos in bright tones of purple, salmon, and yellow. The sounds of harps and lyres floated in the air to the soft beat of a drum.
Lord Mulcibar excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. The hall was filled with people draped in silk and jewelry. The men walked with their backs stiff and their shoulders thrown back, strutting like gamecocks, while the women glided past as serene as swans on a still lake.
I don't belong here. I'm nothing but a prisoner in borrowed clothing.
The soldiers watched but otherwise left him alone as he made a casual circuit around the chamber. He was looking at a wall painting when a sultry voice called his name.
“Master Horace!”
He almost swallowed his tongue as the crowd parted. Queen Byleth sauntered toward him in an outfit he couldn't quite believe. The smoky silk gown left her arms and the upper slopes of her breasts bare, but she might as well have been nude since the material was virtually transparent. Gold baubles hung around her neck, from her ears and around both wrists, and a layer of gold powder sparkled on her face and arms, but he was mesmerized by the lush flesh moving under the veil of silk. Somehow it was more erotic than seeing her naked. In Arnos, such a dress would have been too scandalous for even a dockside whore, but the queen appeared perfectly at ease.
Her twin bodyguards stood behind her. They wore black robes again but tailored in different styles. Xantu wore a tight, straight robe of rough cloth with a crimson sash belt as his only accessory. Gilgar's robe was shimmering silk, cut to expose his muscular arms. A bracelet of gold links flashed on his right wrist.
“There you are,” the queen said as she closed in on him. “We've been waiting for you.”
Horace mustered his best courtly bow. When he straightened, the queen was by his side. “I hope I'm not late,” he said. “You look, well, amazing, Your Excellence.”
He nodded to the twin sorcerers, but they stared through him, not deigning to acknowledge his presence.
The queen latched onto his arm, seeming not to care as she smeared gold dust on his sleeve. “And you look good enough to devour. Come, there are people I want you to meet.”
Horace forced himself to smile as she pulled him through the crowd. He felt like he was caught in the jaws of a shark and was being dragged out to deep waters. He tried not to think about the hard-eyed sorcerers walking behind them. Everyone inclined their heads, not for him, of course, but it was a heady experience to be in the queen's company while surrounded by such aristocracy. Every time she introduced him, Horace gave a firm nod and said hello. He tried to relax, reminding himself that he could still be rotting in a prison cell instead of here among the cream of society. As Queen Byleth guided him through the crowd, he asked, “What is this party for?”
She nodded across the hall to a group of men in white and gold military uniforms with colorful badges on their chests. “We're welcoming the new emissary of Thuum. Each city of the empire sends a representative to Erugash to sit on the governing council for a term of seven years.”
“I confess, Excellence. Your country's system of government confuses me.”
She leaned closer and whispered, “You're not alone. Sometimes I think the bureaucrats create new laws and protocols just to keep the rest of us ignorant of what they're up to. But it's a product of the armistice.”
Horace looked down at her and felt his pulse beating faster. She was beyond beautiful, and here she was on his arm, talking to him while a hundred lords strolled by. “Uh, I'm not familiar with that.”
“About twenty years ago,” she said, “there was a war between the priestly factions. We called it the Godswar. It wasn't a war between armies, although there were occasional skirmishes in the streets. It was more of a political battle. The Sun Cult emerged victorious, with some assistance from the imperial family, and embarked on a campaign to spread its power throughout the empire as the preeminent priesthood.
“My father, King Rathammon, did not agree with this. Our family had long supported the faith of the Moon Goddess, who is our city's patroness. So we rose up in rebellion. My father did not seek conquest, but he knew that no city would be safe from the tightening leash of the Sun Cult unless something was done.”
“But things didn't go so well?”
“The other nine cities, coerced by the priests of the Sun Lord, banded together against Erugash. My father died within sight of the walls. I had just turned eleven.”
Horace started to murmur his condolences when a servant woman came forward with a tray of brown squares set on tiny pieces of paper. He blinked when he noticed the servant was Alyra, wearing a sheer topaz-blue tunic that came down to the tops of her thighs and nothing else. Her face had been made up with rouge and kohl, but Horace could still see the hints of a blush reddening her cheeks. Her eyes were downcast.
Byleth took two pieces from the tray and offered one to Horace. “Try this. You'll love it.”
He considered the brown substance as he watched Alyra out of the corner of his eye.
“I hope you don't mind that I borrowed my favorite handmaiden back,” the queen said as she inserted the strange food into Horace's mouth. “But there's no one else I would trust to attend me at an event like this. This one has such skillful hands, as perhaps you are already aware.”
“Of course not,” Horace mumbled around the stuff in his mouth, which was actually quite good. It was soft and melted into sweet goo on his tongue.
The queen led him away. Each time he turned his head as they walked, Horace couldn't help from glancing back at Alyra, following behind them. The makeup made her eyes seem larger and darker, like they could swallow him whole.
“So why am I—?” he started to ask the queen when a loud voice cut in.
“Il shari azratum!”
Horace turned to face a huge man. He was half a head taller than Horace and corpulent in the extreme. His pristine white uniform looked large enough to shelter an entire family. Byleth and the man, whom she called Lord Baphetor, spoke back and forth in rapid Akeshian. The heavyset nobleman winked several times as he laughed with gusto, which made Horace a little uncomfortable. While they exchanged banter, Horace watched Alyra. She was looking around as if studying the faces in the crowd.
“This is Master Horace Delrosa,” the queen said, placing a hand on Horace's chest. “A traveler from the land of Arnos.”
Horace bowed his head. But as he looked up, he saw a frown cr
ease the envoy's plump lips. “Simtum'nu libriuti, sarratum,” the lord said with a low rumble.
The queen started to lead Horace away, but the envoy said something else. Horace caught the word Tammuris, but he had no idea what it meant. Byleth nodded and smiled but kept walking away. Horace caught the envoy's dark look in their direction before the crowd obscured him. “That didn't sound very friendly.”
The queen ignored the greetings from a pair of older ladies in floor-length gowns as she pulled Horace away. “Lord Baphetor never passes an opportunity to remind me of my fallen stature. He can barely light a candle with his zoana, but his family is wealthy and has powerful alliances, so I must pretend to enjoy his company.”
“What is Tammuris?”
She guided him to a corner of the hall and stopped before a large fresco. It showed a slender woman rising from the earth. She was quite beautiful and garbed only in a white cloth about her loins. “This is Tammuz,” the queen said. “She is the goddess of seasons and also the cycle of life and death that all things experience. Here she is shown by herself, but oftentimes she is shown as four women. The child, the mother, and the crone.”
“That's only three.”
“The fourth is Death.”
He tried to keep his voice neutral, though he felt foolish discussing heathen myths. “And the Tammuris has something to do with this goddess?”
“It is name of a high holy day when we celebrate the celestial marriage between Tammuz and the lord of the underworld.”
Horace peered into his empty glass. Somehow he had drunk it all without realizing it. He frowned as Alyra put another glass of wine in his hand. “Why did that lord—Baphetor?—bring it up?”
The queen sidestepped a trio of gentlemen who seemed like they wanted a word. There was a strange look in her eyes. “You are a rare man, Horace of Tines. There are few even in my inner court who would question me as you do. Are all your countrymen so familiar in the presence of royalty?”
“If I offended, Your Excellence, I apol—”
“There,” she said, looking away. “Now you sound like every other courtier. Tell me. What do you think of these murals? I find them quite amusing.”