by Jon Sprunk
Horace returned his gaze to the paintings. “Amusing?”
“Yes, when my father started construction on this palace, he couldn't find any artists willing to adorn the interior. The priesthoods, you see, had secured every painter in the city with long-term commissions in protest because they believed it was unholy for a king to build a palace taller than their temples.”
She stood back and cocked her head to the side as if trying to find deeper meaning in the artwork. For a moment, she seemed profoundly unhappy. “My father was forced to hire artists from elsewhere at great expense. It amuses me how the priests perceive everything in life as revolving around them. Even kings and queens must come to bow before their altars.”
“It's not much different in Arnos. The king rules, but the True Church guides him and everyone else as well. We're taught that service to the Almighty is the highest good a man can do.”
“Our priesthoods think much the same,” she said. “But my father taught me something quite different before he died.”
“What do you serve, Excellence?”
Horace realized his mistake with one look at her face. The alluring demeanor had been replaced with a stern visage that would have been at home on the walls of a cathedral. “Pardon me,” he stammered. “I'm not thinking straight tonight.”
“I will forgive you, Master Horace, if you tell me more about your country. Courtship customs, for instance. What does an Arnossi woman do when she admires a man?”
“Ah, well, it's been quite some time since I…uh, dabbled in such things, Your Excellence. But I believe the custom is for the man to approach her parents with his intentions.”
“And the woman has no say in the matter?”
Horace smiled, remembering his first encounter with his then-future wife. He had spotted her at a garden party, but had been too timid to approach her. One of her friends had introduced them, and they ended up talking all evening under the stars. They married less than a year later. “Well, perhaps not in the eyes of society, but I seem to recall that most of the women I knew had a great deal of say in the matter.”
The queen smiled back at him. “I see.”
A group of nobles greeted Byleth, and she stepped forward to meet them, all smiles and soft words. Horace looked back at Alyra. He wanted to ask if she was all right, but she hurried after the queen before he could say anything. An invisible band closed around his chest. Had he done something to make her angry? He couldn't think of anything, but he didn't know her that well. With so much going on, he didn't feel like himself either.
I have to talk to her after the party.
Gilgar smiled as if reading Horace's mind, but then his brother elbowed him and they strode after the queen. Horace caught up as Byleth left the nobles. He was about to ask her permission to leave, but she beat him to the punch.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “about comparing you to my other courtiers. You are nothing like them.”
“You don't need to apologize, Excellence.”
“I know.” She leaned closer. “That's what makes it so stimulating.”
Horace saw Alyra over the queen's shoulder, studiously looking away as if she wasn't paying them any mind.
“I'll be leaving the hall soon,” Byleth continued as she took his arm. Her touch burned through the thin sleeve of silk. “And I want to see you afterward in my chambers.”
Horace wasn't sure how to respond. How did one refuse a queen? She was incredibly beautiful, but her manner was too aggressive. It reminded him acutely of the precariousness of his position. He was saved from the need to respond by a polite cough. Three priests in cloth-of-gold robes waited a few steps away, their bald heads shining in the mystical light. The priest at the head of the small procession was old—very old—his scalp covered in faded tattoos and brown age spots. His robe hung on him like a sack, too big for his frame. The golden medallion suspended from a chain looked heavy enough to snap his skinny neck. “Sobhe'etu, sarratum,” he said in a gentle voice.
“I greet you, Holy Father of the Sun,” the queen replied, with more deference than Horace expected.
Horace studied the luminaries walk by while the old priest spoke at some length. The room buzzed with a hundred private conversations above the strains of music.
The queen tugged on his arm. “Horace, this is High Priest Kadamun of the Temple of Amur.”
Not sure if he should nod or bow, or even kneel, Horace put his hand over his chest and bent from the waist. “I am honored to meet Your, um,…Eminence.”
The high priest said something, and the queen translated, “He is curious about your impressions of our realm.”
What does he want me to say? You have very nice prison cells?
Horace looked to Byleth, and she nodded with a small smile. His gaze settled on the glass in his hand. “You make excellent wine.”
Byleth's smile became a trifle strained as she passed his answer along to the holy men. The high priest smirked as he replied. “He says you have a cultured palate,” the queen said. “And perhaps one day you will allow him the honor of showing you the temple's wine cellars.”
Horace smiled to mask his discomfort. “I would enjoy that.”
More pleasantries were exchanged, and then the delegation shuffled away through the crowd at the old priest's pace. Most of the nobles stood back as they passed as if the priests were leprous.
“The high priest seemed like a nice chap,” Horace said.
“Yes,” Byleth replied. “I especially enjoyed the way he threatened to imprison you.”
Horace turned to face her. “He did what?”
The queen pulled him onward. “That bit about inviting you to his wine cellars. That's what people call the dungeons beneath the temple where they keep the heretics awaiting execution.”
“In that case, I take back what I said.”
“Now you're learning, Master Horace.” She gestured around them. “The court is a jungle filled with carnivores. The strong prey upon the weak, and the weak plot to overthrow the strong.”
So which do you think I am? “I'll try to remember that.”
“I hope so. I'd like to see you survive a little longer. Oh, peshka.”
A man in an extravagant outfit of emerald-green silk strode toward them. Horace remembered him from his first audience with the queen. The man had been sitting beside her throne. His short, black hair was oiled and coiffed to perfection, yet his handsome features were marred by an angry scowl. Horace flinched at the touch of the queen's hand on his arm and thought back to the familiar way they'd been circling the hall together.
This must be her betrothed. And he thinks that she and I are…
The queen did nothing, but the twins strode forward to intercept the man. They did not touch him, but each held up an open hand, and the royal fiancé halted as if he'd run into a brick wall. Yet that didn't stop him from shouting and gesticulating wildly. Horace only caught a couple words. One was “savage.”
Byleth pulled Horace away from the ruckus. “What were we discussing?” she asked.
Horace looked over his shoulder and tensed when the man leveled a finger straight at him. “He seems quite upset.”
“Ignore him. It's nothing.”
“In that case I was wondering if there was any chance Your Excellence would consid—”
The queen's face blanched as she stopped mid-step. Before Horace could ask what was wrong, a dagger-sharp pain tore through his head. Glass shattered in the background as he reached up, expecting to feel a river of blood pouring from the back of his scalp, but there was only dry hair. Yet the intense pain persisted. Distant shouts reached his ears. The entire chamber was in disarray, with many nobles clutching their heads. Then the pain was gone, as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind a buzzing itch that traveled down his spine.
“What was that?” he said. His voice sounded harsh in his ears. Was this the attempt that Lord Mulcibar had warned him about?
The queen snapped her fingers at her bod
yguards, who straightened up as if pulled by invisible strings. With narrowed eyes, the twins cleared a path through the hall. Byleth grabbed Horace's arm and dragged him after them. Alyra followed close behind, her wide eyes latched onto him. She was clearly terrified, and he wasn't far from it himself.
What's happened? he mouthed, but she only shook her head.
Then Lord Mulcibar was there. The queen stopped as he whispered in her ear. Horace tried to eavesdrop and watch for trouble at the same time. If someone was going to try to kill the queen, this was a spectacular opportunity. But he didn't see anyone making threatening gestures.
Although if they used sorcery, how would I know until they struck?
With that sobering thought, Horace found himself wanting to help the queen, perhaps because she was one of the few people in this land to show him kindness. He studied the faces around them, attempting to discern from which direction an attack might come. Yet everyone wore the same look of shock and fear. Before Horace could form a strategy, the ground bucked under him. He grabbed hold of Alyra, and they clung together as the palace quaked. Priests and nobles crashed into one another. The queen staggered toward Horace, but the twins both reached out and kept her upright.
The tremor only lasted a couple heartbeats, but it felt like minutes. When it was over, Horace remained still. Alyra's breathing was loud in his ear. It had been a long time since he'd held a woman. He'd forgotten how good it felt. The softness of her skin, the citrus fragrance in her hair.
A loud boom exploded outside the chamber, followed by a flash of light through the tall chamber windows. Green lightning. Horace swallowed painfully as a strong wind laden with ozone blew in through the windows. What had Alyra called it? A chaos storm?
The queen extricated herself from her bodyguards. She glanced once at Horace and Alyra, raised an eyebrow, and began shouting at people around her. The soldiers who were converging on her position turned and ran for the door. Nobles squawked as they were pushed aside, but none tried to resist. The twins retook their positions behind the queen as she followed the soldiers.
Horace's legs were still a little shaky, but he released his grip on Alyra.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She headed toward the windows. Horace was about to join her when Lord Mulcibar emerged from the crowd, hobbling on his cane.
“Is everything all right?” Horace asked.
“We must go,” the nobleman said. “Now.”
“Where?”
“Follow the queen. I fear she will need every ally she can find.”
The nobleman gave Horace a penetrating glance and then started in the direction the queen had taken. Most of the other nobles were leaving as well, pressing through other doors and archways. They reminded Horace of rats fleeing a sinking ship. He started after Mulcibar when Alyra grabbed his arm. “Come with me,” she said under her breath.
“What? The queen—”
“I'm getting you out of here,” she whispered as she steered him toward a side door.
“Now? I don't think it's a good time to be outside with the storm—”
“Listen! I have friends in the city. They'll help you escape, if we can get outside the palace…what is it?”
Horace was looking up at the ceiling. He could feel the power of the storm overhead, churning with a dark hunger as it lashed out. With every lightning strike, a shudder raced through his body. He remembered how Lord Isiratu had collapsed trying to dispel the sandstorm. Then he thought about Byleth attempting to do the same.
“I have to go.”
Alyra pulled on his arm. “That's right. We can get you out a postern on the south side—”
“No. I have to go help the queen.”
“Horace! This is your chance to get away.”
“I'm sorry.” He extricated himself from her grasp. “Find a safe place until the storm passes.”
“But—!”
He turned away and hurried after Lord Mulcibar. He caught up with the nobleman in the grand hallway as another tremor shook the palace. Horace's legs almost collapsed as the pain returned, constricting his chest. He leaned against the archway for support, feeling like he was going to pass out. Then Alyra was there. With an exasperated glare, she propped her shoulder under his arm. She was saying something, but another barrage of thunder blocked his ears.
“—the stairs,” she shouted in his ear.
“What?” he asked. His voice sounded odd. Distant.
Lord Mulcibar was hunched against the other wall, bracing himself upright with his cane. Horace stumbled over to the nobleman. Together, he and Alyra half-walked, half-dragged Mulcibar down the corridor. The sound of tromping boots echoed behind them, but they faded away into the distance. Horace focused on staying on his feet. This new bout of pain had hurt worse than the first. It was subsiding now, but he had a sneaking suspicion it would return.
Next time I'm just going to pass out and save myself the trouble.
They followed Lord Mulcibar's directions, and after a few dozen steps the nobleman regained enough strength to walk under his own power. He took them up through the central stairways of the palace, making Horace uncomfortable.
“Do these storms occur here often?” he asked.
Alyra's eyes answered him. She was holding it together, but he could tell she was frightened. “No,” she whispered.
“There,” Lord Mulcibar said as he climbed onto a landing and pointed his cane at a sturdy teakwood door.
Horace opened it, and a howling wail filled the stairwell. The wind whipped Horace's clothes and filled his head with a horrible stench. Through the door was a short corridor where the queen and her retinue stood by another doorway, which was open to the outside. Bright green light illuminated the corridor, and thunder shook the walls. Fresh agony ripped through his chest. It was several seconds before he could even breathe again. By that time, Lord Mulcibar had joined the queen's gathering.
Horace pulled Alyra aside. “Listen. I don't think you should be here. If these people are set on confronting the Almighty, I don't know if I can—”
“Horace!” Byleth shouted.
The queen stood by the outer door, reaching out a hand toward him. With a grimace, he left Alyra's side. The people gathered in the passageway were, he noticed, all nobles.
All sorcerers, too, I'll wager.
A few of the aristocrats frowned as Horace entered their circle, but they made room for him. The queen led them in some kind of chant, but Lord Mulcibar moved beside Horace.
“Are you all right?”
“I'm scared out of my wits. How about you?”
Mulcibar made a tight smile. “We shall find out very soon.”
Horace glanced out the open door. A portico extended into the night. Driving rain beat the gray pavestones. The tickling sensation along the back of his neck itched like an army of ants was marching up his spine. The queen took a step toward the doorway. Her voice floated above the thunder and the thrashing wind. A bolt of jagged green lightning crossed the sky, outlining her form in an emerald nimbus.
“It's time,” Mulcibar said.
Horace tensed as a loud boom echoed overhead. For a moment, he was back in the desert again, looking up at the violent storm as it threatened to carry him away. He couldn't suppress a shudder. He wanted to shout that he couldn't help them. Yet, watching the nobles march out through the door behind the queen, Horace couldn't let them face it alone because the truth was that he had come to admire these people. Some of them, at least. He looked over his shoulder. Alyra stood in the shadow of the hallway. She looked smaller in the dim lighting. Her hair flowed behind her in the wind, revealing her gold collar. He nodded to her and then walked out.
As he stepped over the threshold, his stomach turned upside down. The nobles stood in the center of a broad terrace, huddled close together in their soaked apparel. The sky was a sheet of black iron spitting blood-warm rain and bolts of eerie lightning. A sullen howl roared in his ears as the wind whipped p
ast him. He looked up. “Holy Father in Heaven…”
The storm raged over the city, larger and more fearsome than any tempest he'd ever seen. Its sheer malevolence crashed over the city with every thunderous boom. Despite his misgivings, Horace was drawn to the play of light and shadow across the stormy heavens. Watching the sporadic barrage of levin bolts, he sensed a pattern in their movements, like a puzzle he might unlock if he stared long enough. He took a step toward the marble balustrade bordering the terrace.
“Horace!”
Tearing his gaze away from the sky, Horace saw Lord Mulcibar beckoning to him. The ache in his chest was fierce, but he hurried over to the nobles. He said nothing as he joined their circle, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The queen was giving instructions to the group. Horace tried to listen for words he might recognize, but half of what she said was lost in the clamor. With each cracking stroke of lightning, her face lit up, pale and green, her eyes open wide.
Lord Mulcibar turned to him. “We are going to try to deflect the storm in a southerly direction away from the city.”
“What do I do?” Horace shouted back.
“The ritual is in Akeshian, but you don't need to know the words. The queen will lead us. Just focus on your qa.”
“My what?”
The nobleman placed a hand over his stomach. “The seat of your energy. Feel it moving and try to lend it to the group. Don't worry. Once you feel your zoana rise, the ritual will take over.”
Byleth shouted, her face lifted to the ebon sky. The nobles repeated her words. They didn't hold hands or light candles, or do anything Horace attributed to a ritual. Yet, as their voices joined the queen's, he felt the stirring in his chest that he had come to think of as his zoana. He tried humming along with the Akeshian phrases, which had fallen into a rhythm that reminded him of a church hymn. The humming seemed to amplify the sensation moving inside him, but he had no idea what to do next. How could he “lend” his power to anyone?
Nothing seemed to be happening. The storm continued to lash at them. A harsh crackle split the night as more lightning struck near the palace. Down in the city, he saw fires glowing like embers beneath the rising smoke, and it brought back memories of his flight from Tines. The flames and smoke were etched in his mind, along with the cries of frightened people, and deep back in his memories echoed a mournful scream that never ended.