Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One)

by Jon Sprunk

  “I'll keep working on it. How did you sleep?”

  “Good.” She picked up the pastry. “Thank you for this.”

  But Horace hardly heard her. The sight of her biting into the roll reminded him of his dream. For a moment he sat on a hillside above the bay at Tines again, staring at his wife.

  “Horace?”

  He forced himself to smile. “Sorry. I was just…in another place.”

  “It's all right. As long as you're back now.”

  “I'm all yours. Say, I was wondering if you'd like to take a walk. It's a beautiful day.”

  “Whatever you w—,” Alyra started to say. “I mean, I wish I could, but I was going to see a friend today.”

  “Oh. In that case, perhaps we could—”

  A throat cleared behind him, and Pomuthus poked his head in the door. “Pardon for the interruption. Lord Mulcibar is here to see you.”

  Before Horace could answer, Alyra told the captain to admit Mulcibar and make him comfortable. Horace shook his head. “You planned this.”

  Alyra opened the door of a tall armoire. “What?”

  “Lord Mulcibar's arrival. It's rather convenient that he shows up unannounced right as you're going out. Who is this friend anyway?”

  A slight furrow creased Alyra's forehead. She closed the armoire door and faced him. “Am I free?”

  Now it was his turn to frown. “What? Of course you are.”

  “If I am no longer your property, then I may come and go as I please. True?”

  Horace sighed, resigned to being in the wrong. “Forgive me, my lady. It's not my place to question you. I was just…concerned.”

  “Well, then, perhaps I will tell you.” She winked. “When I return. Now go see Lord Mulcibar and be nice. You don't have enough friends in Erugash that you can afford to lose this one.”

  Isn't that the truth? “Yes, my lady. Have a good time. Oh, and take the soldiers with you when you go.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Horace paused halfway to the door. “Pardon?”

  She peered around the armoire door, holding a plain white tunic. “If you must know, I'm going to see some of my friends at the palace, and they won't enjoy being surrounded by men with swords.”

  “Tell the guards to wait outside. I'd just feel better if they escorted you.”

  “Horace, I've been making my way through this city for a long time now. Years longer than you have. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know, but those things tried to kill both of us. If there are more of them, I don't think they'll think twice about trying again on an open street. Please, just take the guards.”

  Horace braced himself for another argument, but Alyra nodded. “All right. I'll take two men, but no more.”

  “Thank you. Now I suppose I have to go entertain our guest while you're out gallivanting.”

  She gave him a withering glare, and Horace held up his good hand in a gesture of surrender. “I'm going, I'm going.”

  Closing the door behind him, Horace considered going back to his chamber to change into something more suitable, but his feet carried him toward the main stairs. The guards clinked in their mail behind him. He was glad Alyra had accepted his offer to take some men with her. The attack in the palace had rattled them both, but she seemed to have recovered faster.

  Father always said women were the stronger sex where it counted. I never understood that when I was younger, but the Almighty smite me if he wasn't right.

  Horace pondered what his father would make of his current circumstances as he entered the parlor off the front vestibule. He hadn't had a chance to change the decor of the house since they'd moved in, and this was the room he hated the most. The light-brown plaster of the walls was textured like dried baby shit. The chairs and divan were upholstered with a gaudy floral pattern out of a pastoral nightmare. Bronze ladles and old farm tools hung on the walls; on the east wall were four alcoves containing small statues. These, he'd been told, were the gods of the household. The clay representations with their beady lapis lazuli eyes made him uncomfortable, like he was an intruder in his own home.

  He put on a good face as he greeted Lord Mulcibar, who stood looking at a painting hung on the wall. The piece was called Beast in Repose, but it featured a trio of nymphs bathing at the feet of a matron reclining on a bench. Horace didn't like the image, especially the old woman's eyes, which were black and penetrating. He tried to ignore them.

  “My lord.”

  Horace made a bow, but Mulcibar waved a hand at him. “None of that, if you please. I get enough scraping and ass-kissing at the palace.”

  Horace took a seat on the divan. “Please sit. Would you like something to break your fast?”

  “No, I've already eaten.” The nobleman sat in a chair facing the center of the room. He had brought a long, thin bundle wrapped in purple cloth, which he set beside his chair. “I wanted to check in on you. The commander of the Queen's Guard is an important post.”

  “I don't feel very important,” Horace replied. “Then again, I suppose not everyone has demons trying to kill him.”

  “Yes, quite. Since you broach the subject, I have been to your old suite. To peruse the wreckage, shall we say?”

  Horace winced. He'd been forced to use every ounce of his power to fend off the creatures, and it nearly hadn't been enough. “How bad was it?”

  “I am glad to say the palace will remain standing, although between the damage from the storm and your encounter, the royal engineers have their hands full. Judging by the evidence, the magnitude of energies you unleashed that night was impressive. Yet it was also quite evident that you lack precision.”

  “I'm still working on that. Do you know what it was that attacked us?”

  “I do.”

  Mulcibar reached into his impeccable gray robe and withdrew a glass bottle sealed with a cork, which he handed to Horace. A pile of teeth filled the bottom third of the bottle, each sharply pointed and much larger than human teeth. They looked like the fangs of a bear. A really big bear.

  “We call them idimmu,” Mulcibar said. “Our myths are filled with them. Evil spirits that eat human flesh.”

  “Lord of Light,” Horace breathed, not sure whether he could believe it or not. He'd seen the creatures himself, fought them, bled from the injuries they'd inflicted on him. Yet it still felt unreal, like a nightmare left over from childhood. “Do you know why they attacked us?”

  “Not for certain, but part of the reason I've come today, besides congratulating you on your new home, is to warn you that you are now swimming in very dangerous waters.”

  Horace fought back a snort, but failed. “More dangerous than washing up alone and helpless on the shore of your sworn enemies? More dangerous than being put in chains and collared like a dog?” He shook the bottle. “More dangerous than this?”

  Lord Mulcibar met his gaze without blinking. “Yes. As a captive and a slave, you enjoyed certain protections. Lord Isiratu, for instance, might have had to pay recompense if he'd killed you and later found out that another zoanii, such as the queen, had claim to you. That's why he handed you over without protest. Once you passed into the queen's possession, she was responsible for your welfare.”

  “No offense, but she put me in a fucking dungeon cell, my lord. She didn't seem too concerned about my welfare then.”

  “On the contrary, you were well-treated, given food and water, and—most importantly—you were safe.”

  Horace started to curse in Arnossi but stopped himself. “Are you saying I'm not anymore? Safe, that is.”

  “Precisely. The court plays by a different set of rules. Status is everything. Sons will betray fathers to gain it. Wives will plot against their husbands and lovers. Nothing is beyond the pale.”

  “What about the queen? Why doesn't she stop it?”

  “Whatever for? Her Majesty was born into this environment. She thrives on the unending conflict and retains much of her political power by playing the factions
against each other.”

  Horace leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “I remember you gave me the same warning on the night of the queen's party. So I'll ask you again. What do I do?”

  “Obviously, you must tread carefully. Under normal circumstances, a new member of the inner circle is tested rigorously by the others. Yet your elevation to this position is unprecedented. The court will watch and wait, seeking to know your strength before they make a move. You must use this time to your advantage.”

  “What about the idimmu?”

  “I suspect they were a blunder.”

  “That's one hell of a blunder,” Horace said.

  “Yes. They dwell beyond our world and must be summoned with sorcery. Not an easy feat, and one which only the darkest sorcerer would attempt.”

  One person came to mind. “Gilgar's brother.”

  “Lord Xantu was my first suspect. However, he is innocent as far as I can determine. If anything, he appears more upset by his late brother's treason than anyone.”

  “He would appear that way,” Horace said, “if he were engaged in the same conspiracy.”

  Mulcibar smiled, which deepened the lines around his eyes. “Lord Horace, I'd say you are adapting well to Akeshian society. In any case, discovering the identity of the culprit is now your duty as First Sword.”

  “Lucky me,” Horace muttered.

  “Yes. In the meantime, we need to work on your self-control.”

  “I've been trying those exercises you taught me.”

  Just thinking about them made Horace's head ache. Lord Mulcibar had instructed him in a series of mental puzzles such as studying an object, like a painting or a glass vase, then closing his eyes and trying to keep that object in his mind for a duration of several minutes. Or the opposite, emptying his mind of all images or thoughts and remaining that way, completely blank, for a similar period of time. He'd found these exercises to be much harder than they sounded. The point, Mulcibar had said, was to focus his mind on specific tasks, and thereby strengthen his connection to the zoana. “But they don't seem to be working. At least, not consistently.”

  The old nobleman smiled like a patient grandfather. “Zoanii train from the time they are children. You cannot expect to master the five arts in a single moon.”

  “Five? I thought you said there were only four.”

  “Each dominion comprises an art of zoana. The fifth art is Shinar, the study of the void.”

  “What is the void?”

  Mulcibar picked up his bundle and gestured to the door leading to the garden. They went outside where the bright, cloudless sky promised a fine day.

  Mulcibar stopped beside the orange-fruit tree. “Now, even your learned men understand that the heavens are a distant bowl inverted above the earth. The sun and the stars travel along this celestial dish above the sky, but there is a space between the heavens and the sky. An emptiness. This is the void.”

  Horace looked up. Above the roof of his house he could see the edge of the sun surrounded by blue. “I don't see anything above the sky. It's all just air.”

  “Shinar cannot be seen,” Mulcibar said. “It cannot be touched or smelled either. Yet the universe is connected by emptiness. The sky above our heads, the ground beneath our feet, the space between our breaths. The void exists in all these things. Understand the nothingness, and you will understand everything.”

  “It sounds…I'm sorry, but it sound like pagan nonsense. If it can't be seen or felt, what use is it?”

  “When the idimmu attacked in your bedchamber,” Mulcibar said, “which dominion did you employ to drive them away?”

  “It was…” Horace thought back to that night, something he'd been trying to avoid these past couple days. The battle with the demons was still fresh in his mind. “I don't know. I couldn't see anything happening, but the demon—whatever you call it—felt it.”

  “Creatures from the Outside, as many zoanii have discovered to their detriment, are resistant to the four traditional dominions. They can only be destroyed, as far as we know, by the power of Shinar.”

  Horace sighed, trying to take this all in. “All right. So I used the fifth dominion. Is that a problem? Like I said, I've been practicing the techniques you taught me.”

  “You aren't understanding. Let me make this plain. There are no practitioners of Shinar in all of Akeshia. The last zoanii rumored to control the void died more than two centuries ago. To say it is a rare talent would be a gross understatement.”

  A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the garden trees. Horace looked down at his chest, remembering the invisible power that had erupted from him. He recalled the pain and the ecstasy of it, the feeling of unbridled freedom.

  “This also explains your affinity with the chaos storms,” Mulcibar said. “And perhaps your lack of immaculata as well. We have precious little information about the fifth dominion. There's no record of the techniques required to control it or the risks involved.”

  That last part caught Horace's attention. “Risks?”

  “Shinar is more than an element of the world.” Mulcibar touched his chest and then his head. “When we zoanii meditate to hone our precision with the power, it is the void we seek to comprehend. All of us fall short, yet it is the search for that perfect nothingness that compels us to master our zoana. But you apply the Shinar as easily as I am breathing this air.”

  “I wouldn't say it's been easy,” Horace muttered.

  “Horace, I have been contemplating the void every day since I was seven years old. And you already know it more fully and more deeply than I ever will. It staggers me to imagine what you will discover in the time to come, the wonders you will weave. If you survive.”

  “There you go again with the risks and my survival. What's the danger? Am I going to explode or something?”

  The nobleman uncovered his bundle and rolled out a square rug on the pavestones. It was about four feet on each side and stitched with an intricate design of geometric shapes inside and around a wide golden circle. The interior designs included a series of concentric squares around another circle in black, which was divided into four quadrants surrounding an innermost circle of white. The rug's pattern was beautiful, but it was so elaborate that Horace found it difficult to focus on any single design.

  “This is a ganzir mat,” Mulcibar said. “There are many variations. In fact, each family has its own unique version. This is the ganzir of my house.”

  “It's very nice.”

  “Please, sit down.”

  As they both got comfortable on the ground, the nobleman said, “Your lack of control stems from an absence of inner harmony. The ganzir is used to focus the mind, much like the hand positions I taught you. These designs impress upon the mind that everything is one. As above, so below.”

  Mulcibar indicated the center circle. “Here you see the wheel of the arts, with the four dominions surrounding the circle of the void. He who controls the emptiness also masters the other four dominions in conjunction.”

  Horace leaned over the mat for a closer look. There was a tiny design inside the innermost circle. It resembled a man sitting cross-legged, stitched in platinum thread. “So what do I do with it?”

  “The key to your power is balance and harmony. Gaze upon the patterns and allow them to merge with your thoughts. The goal is to reach a state of heightened consciousness wherein you observe the entire universe at once.”

  Horace considered the nobleman's words. It was preposterous to think that looking at a carpet would help him control his powers, but he was willing to try for the old man's sake. Horace stared at the jumble of shapes and colors, letting his eyes roam across it without focusing on anything specific. Yet, as the minutes passed by, he found his gaze drawn again and again to the tiny figure sitting in the center circle. There was something odd about the figure, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

  “Now try to access your zoana,” Mulcibar said. “Allow it to flow naturally out of you.”
<
br />   Horace was surprised to find the magic already coursing through him at a low level. He tried to follow Mulcibar's instructions and let it out, but the power evaded his mental grasp. It was like trying to grab a greased eel, and every time he reached for it, a jolt of pain ran through his chest. After about a dozen attempts, he gave up with a grunt. “I can't. It won't come.”

  “Try again.”

  “I did, all right!” Horace stood up and dusted the seat of his robe. “Maybe your carpet doesn't work for me. I'm a savage, after all.”

  Mulcibar used his stick to lever himself to his feet, looking for that instant like an old, broken man. “Perhaps you are right.”

  Horace reached out to help him, but the nobleman waved him away. “I'm sorry,” Horace said. “That was churlish of me. Thank you for everything.”

  “No need to apologize. I hated my teachers in the art. Black-hearted bastards, every one of them. Of course, I was not the most attentive pupil. I lost count of how many sticks they broke across my back.”

  “Do you think that would help me learn? I'm sure I could find some switches around here somewhere.”

  They were both laughing when a soft voice called from the parlor door. Horace turned to see a servant girl waiting. He struggled to remember her name. “Dharma, right? What do you need?”

  “A messenger came to the door, sire. He left a package.”

  The girl moved aside, and one of Horace's guards carried a long box about the size of a map case past her. The man held it gingerly, as if afraid to break its contents. Horace bid him to set it on a bench.

  After the guard left, Horace started to reach for the box, but Mulcibar stopped him with a word. “Wait. Please, allow me to inspect it first.”

  “You don't need to do that,” Horace said. “I can get it.”

  “What if the box has been enspelled? Can you spot a rek-plag curse without touching the outer surface? Do you know the thirteen anti-bindings that can be used to corrode a sorcerer's connection to the zoana and cause his own power to rebound against him? Do you know what the toxin from a tsi-tsi adder smells like?”

  The case looked innocent enough, made of dark wood with a rich varnish and brass fittings. Yet Horace stayed where he was. “Ah, why don't you look it over first?”