by Jon Sprunk
“Stay with me tonight,” Sef breathed into her ear.
“I can't. You know the other handmaidens would talk, and it would mean a mess of trouble for both of us if the queen found out.”
“Then I'll come to you. After the queen retires for the night, I can slip out and—”
Alyra took a long step backward, breaking free of Sef's touch. “No.”
Sefkahet looked as if she wanted to keep pursuing, but she held back. “Why not? You said you missed me.”
“I do. But this can't go on, Sef. You're still with the network, and I'm outside.”
“But it's not that, is it? It's him. Night was right. You've fallen for him. Alyra, he doesn't know you like I do. He can't love you the way I do.”
Alyra turned away to hide the tears forming in her eyes. “It doesn't matter. I know what I have to do, and I'm doing it. I can't have you in here.” She touched her chest. “It's too painful trying to juggle everything. Please. This isn't easy for me, but it's what has to happen.”
She waited for a response, but there was nothing except the stirring of the leaves in the wind. Alyra turned back to find Sefkahet was gone. The darkness closed in tighter around her as if a blanket had fallen over the moon. Standing by the pond, she let the tears fall.
Horace looked both ways down the corridor as he knocked on the door again. It was late—almost midnight—but he needed to see her. His head was awhirl, and he needed to make sense of it all. And it started with her. He knocked a third time, but still no answer. He placed his hand on the latch. After a moment's hesitation, he opened it.
“Alyra?”
He pitched his voice low so it wouldn't echo out into the hallway. Her room was dark and small with only a narrow bed against the far wall. A bag with a carrying strap sat at the foot of the bed, clothes spilling out. Horace went over to the bronze lamp fashioned in the shape of a dolphin hanging by a chain and felt it. It was warm, but not hot. She'd been gone for a little while.
He left and started down the hallway in the direction of the stairs. Down the east wing corridor he saw a cluster of guardsmen outside the queen's suite, including the commander and his tall lieutenant. Horace went over to them. The soldiers saluted as he approached.
“Good evening, Belum,” Captain Dyvim said. The leader of the Queen's Guard was an older gentleman of the hekatatum warrior caste. Horace found him a bit stiff but a likeable fellow nonetheless.
“How goes the watch?” Horace asked.
“All quiet. If you're here to see Her Majesty, I would suggest waiting until morning.”
“No, no. I'm just prowling around. Have you happened to see Lady Alyra recently?”
“I have not. Lieutenant Orthen?”
“No, sir,” the lieutenant said in a surprisingly soft voice. “I could send out a detachment to locate her, if my lord wishes.”
“No. That's not necessary. Have a good night, Captain.”
Dyvim bowed again and was imitated by his men. “And you, as well, Belum.”
With a friendly nod, Horace resumed his search. He went downstairs and reached the villa's atrium without seeing anyone except a pair of guards walking patrol. He almost ran into a young woman in a short dress hurrying in the front entrance. Then he saw her gold collar and recognized her as one of the queen's handmaidens.
“Pardon me,” he said.
She kept her eyes on the floor as she moved out of his way. “Please forgive me, Great Lord.” Her words were pitched almost too low to hear.
“It was my fault. I'm trying to find someone. You know Alyra, right? She's not in her room.”
“She is in the gardens,” the woman said, almost whispering. She looked upset. “Down by the meditation pool.”
“Kanadu. Have a good evening.”
As he continued out the door, Horace looked back over his shoulder. The handmaiden was climbing the stairs. Her head was bent down, her shoulders shaking, as if she were crying. I hope it's not something I said. Poor girl.
Outside, the night was cool with a fresh breeze. The drooping trees surrounding the villa's estate swayed to the rhythm of the wind. The gardens spread out on all sides of the main house, divided by stone paths and leafy hedges, broken by the rooftops of small pavilions like wooden islands in the greenery. It was quiet, except for the buzzing of locusts and the occasional birdcall.
Horace made his way through the winding paths. A few minutes later, he found Alyra standing beside a scenic pond. He held back for a moment to watch her, standing in the pale moonlight. She bent down to smell the petals of a broad, white bloom, and he wished time would freeze in that instant. She was the purest thing in his life. She's a spy. Dealing in duplicity, and yet she's never false to herself. Why can't I be that way?
But he was torn between two worlds and two desires. He shifted his feet, the leather of his sandals scraping across the stone underfoot, and she turned. She kept her hands at her sides as she spotted him. Her eyes were hidden in deep shadows. “How long have you been there?”
All my life?
“I needed to find you.” He spoke in Arnossi.
She stepped forward, flower petals brushing against her legs. “Here I am.”
“I was hoping you'd be back soon. I have something for you.”
Horace reached into his sash and pulled out a small object. She took it in her hand. The carving was done in a light wood, polished to an amber sheen. “A sea turtle?” she asked.
“It's from Thym. You told me you and your family lived there when you were young.”
She held the carving in both hands, examining the detail. “That was thoughtful of you.”
“Things haven't been the same since you left. The job is…well, it's a lot more work than I anticipated.”
“It's an important position. You've come a long way since I first met you.”
“I'm still the same man. At least, I hope I am.”
“It's not so easy to tell.”
“You've been gone. I've had to hold things together here without you. Without Mulcibar. I tell you, Alyra, I feel like a fraud most of the time. People are making all these demands of me, and I don't know what to do anymore.”
“The queen wants you to do something?”
He didn't want to get into this with her, but it was pointless to hide it. She'd find out soon enough. “She wants me to oversee the halt of the slave uprising.”
“She wants you to crush them. Kill them all and make an example of them.”
It wasn't a question. “Yes. Something like that.”
“And you didn't refuse.”
“I tried to refuse. It's not as easy as it sounds when royalty is staring you in the face. She expects to be obeyed.”
Her head was bowed so he couldn't see her face in the gloom. “I'm sure you tried your best.”
“I did. What about you? What have you been doing all this time?”
“The same thing I was doing when you met me.”
“Of course. Your mission. It must be nice to have only one worry.”
“I worry. But the threat is not ended. If anything, it's worse now.”
“How could it be worse? The Sun Temple is destroyed. The queen is safe now, and I'm a member of her court. I wouldn't let anything threaten you.”
She looked up. Her eyes, shining, pierced through him. “Because you're so vital, she couldn't deny you anything. Right? She could never make you betray your ideals.”
“It's not like that. I don't intend to let anyone be hurt. I'm in a position to help the rebels, to bring about a peaceful solution.”
Her laugh was short and painful, cutting through his emotional barricades. “Then you don't know anything, Horace. The rebels aren't interested in a peaceful resolution. They will fight until they get what they want.”
He hadn't considered that. All these things he wanted to do, everything he wanted to be, perhaps they weren't as compatible as he'd believed. Could he serve the queen faithfully and still hold true to his values? Did he have an
y choice at this point? “Then I guess I'll have to convince them.”
“Like the way you convinced the queen to be merciful?”
“She's considering my plan.”
Alyra shook her head. “No, she's goading you into doing something you don't want. She's in your head, Horace. She owns you.”
“Sounds like you're the one trying to control me. And you're angry someone else has my attention.”
She turned away so her profile was facing him. The moonlight cascaded down her long hair, turning it to white gold. “Then I feel sorry for you. You don't even know how lost you are.”
“If I don't handle this problem, Byleth will find someone else. And you can bet that person won't have any problem with killing as many rebels as it takes to put the matter to rest. Is that what you want?”
“It's not about what I want, Horace. I'm not the one making the decision.”
“Dammit, I'm trying to make this work! I'm trying to bridge the gap, but you aren't making it any easier.”
“I know and I'm sorry, but I can't help you with this.”
“No? Then maybe you're the one who's lost, Alyra. Or maybe you never cared in the first place.”
He flinched even as the words came out of his mouth, but he was too angry to take them back. She had cut him deep and then twisted the knife for good measure.
Instead, he stalked away. The zoana stirred inside him as he left the gardens, like a caged beast that wanted to be free. He kept it on a tight leash, though it would have felt good to lash out, to destroy something and watch it fall to pieces, to feel the power surging through him.
He threw open the door to his suite, not caring at the noise as it slammed against the interior wall, then slammed it shut behind him. His nerves were frayed. His cheeks hurt from clenching his jaws so hard. Relax. Exploding isn't going to help.
He glanced down at the floor and considered meditating, but he wasn't in the mood. Instead, he went to the spirits cabinet and fished out a bottle of plum wine. The pale violet liquid sloshed inside as he held it up. He twisted off the top and took a deep gulp as he went out onto his private balcony. Sitting in a chair, drinking from the bottle, he looked out through the arched branches of the trees and caught a glimpse of the river's faint shimmer. The wind picked up, shaking the leaves.
He told himself he wouldn't think about Alyra, but his thoughts crept back to her like a beaten dog slinking back home. This wasn't how he had imagined her homecoming. Now everything was ruined. Shattered.
Perhaps he couldn't have everything he wanted, but he refused to quit just because things were becoming more complicated. He had his title and his power. And he also had the queen's trust, for now. They would be enough. And if not, then I'll cross those waters when I come to them.
The alcohol spread through his body in a warm wave that washed away the hurt. He sat and rode that wave as the stars wheeled above the villa, thinking of all the endless possibilities before him.
He soared high above the shadow-dappled ground. Stars sparkled in the deep-black sky above him. Scattered moonbeams stabbed through him yet left no mark in his ethereal flesh. With a gusty laugh, Horace shot into a bank of gathering thunderheads.
His vision dimmed for a few seconds, and then he was flying over a rippling desert plain. A powerful energy burgeoned inside him, growing as the clouds stirred around him. They moved in a circle with him at the epicenter, slowly at first but with increasing velocity. The air cooled. The power inside him flared, building in waves until it exploded in a satisfying crackle of thunder.
He was the storm. The driving wind. The pouring rain. His voice was a hurricane.
Far below among the dunes and barren rocks, a town huddled behind scarred stone walls. Lights shone within, waving feebly in the rising wind. More lights twinkled outside the walls, but his wrath was focused on the stone towers and slanted rooftops inside. He did not know where this ire for the town came from, nor did he care. All that mattered was the power inside him, surging to be unleashed.
With a thrust of his hand, a jagged bolt of lightning flashed down at the town. Its green glow illuminated a maze of streets and hovels huddled around the larger structures. Flames erupted from inside the building he'd struck. Thunder boomed in his ears, drowning out every sound except the howling winds. Again and again his incandescent fury rained down, and with each attack he felt his strength flowing through him like a burning river, scorching away the tribulations of a mundane life that had haunted him for too long. Tired of being weak and at the mercy of others, he reveled in this newfound supremacy. But a voice in the back of his mind whispered it wasn't new. No, he'd always had this potential, buried so deep it might never have come to light if not for…
Lightning flashed, blinding him, and in that moment he was back aboard the Bantu Ray as the converted merchant carrack struggled in the grip of a nightmare storm. Verdant light flashed in the sky, and something opened inside him, like a hidden inner doorway opening for the first time. Dark energy seethed within. Then a wave of cold water crashed over him, carrying him away, and the moment was lost.
He watched the fires roar below and the tiny figures scurrying to escape the destruction he had wrought. He wanted to be free from the restraints that bound him, free to roam the earth, doing as he pleased, destroying all that stood in his way. Yet some force held him in this place. He strained against it, ceasing his rampage on the town to direct his strength in this new direction, to breaking free. Yet the power holding him resisted. He struggled harder, until something started to change inside him. Bits of energy drifted away from him, charging the air with their power, while at the same time a weird sensation akin to vertigo twisted his core. His view of the vista below grew dim and distant, as if the entire world were fading from his sight. Or perhaps he was the one who was fading. The last sound he heard was a peal of thunder, growing louder.
Coming closer.
Horace bolted upright with a sharp pain in his chest. For a heartbeat he didn't know where he was. Was he the storm soaring over the desert? Or was he the man?
He sat in a padded chair on the balcony of his room at the villa where he'd fallen asleep. The trees below swayed, their leaves thrashing in the wind. Something thrummed in the air, like a host of vibrations, invisible and inaudible, faintly palpitating across his skin. Rubbing his chest through his tunic, he started to stand up when the floor rumbled beneath his feet. Am I still dreaming?
The floor bucked, sending him stumbling into the stone balustrade surrounding the balcony. A grinding rumble like stone being ripped apart resounded through the villa, punctuated by a staccato of distant thumps. The balcony shuddered with each impact. When it started to tear away from the villa, Horace jumped through the doorway back into his room. A piece of bronze sculpture tumbled over from the bedside table onto the floor. Horace scrambled for the door. He heard the first detonation as he reached for the latch handle.
The windows in his room exploded, spraying glass everywhere. Shards nicked his arms and hands as he covered his face. Through his fingers he saw a growing light outside the windows, pulsating orange and yellow. Raw heat washed across his back as he threw himself to the floor. He grabbed for his power and tried the first thing that came to mind, conjuring a cloud of cool mist around himself. The zoana stuttered inside him, present but not obeying his will. He pulled harder, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. He was inside a solid bubble of water. It filled his mouth and nose, suffocating him as the inferno washed over him. He thrashed on the floor and tried to spit it out, but the liquid just kept coming. He was on the verge of passing out when he finally managed to sever his connection to the power. With a choking cough, he vomited up the last of the water.
Horace coughed as he got on his hands and knees. The flames had retreated, leaving the room clogged with smoke. He crawled to the nearer window and peeked over the scorched sill. A stand of trees stood far back from the east side of the villa. A party of men stood on the grassy sward between the villa and th
e woods. Eight men in dark robes. Their gleaming masks stared in his direction, the bronze features fashioned into the likenesses of strange beasts. Three of the masked men raised their hands, fingers together like a salute. Prickles ran down Horace's spine a heartbeat before a barrage of bright lights rushed toward him.
Terrified that he might kill himself with his own magic, Horace didn't dare reach for it as he ducked under the window. The walls rocked as hostile magic struck the side of the villa. Fire seared the outer brick facing, and ice froze the mortar solid. A windstorm battered the manor while the ground shook. Crawling back from the window under a storm of frozen hail, Horace could feel the structure of the villa shaking around him.
A jet of flame flashed in his peripheral vision. Biting back his fear, Horace reacted as he'd learned from Ubar, using his feel of the zoana to follow the tether of power back to its source on the lawn. Before he could talk himself out it, he seized a thread of Shinar and severed that ethereal connection with a quick slash. The fire evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a haze of smoke and soot. Horace was starting to stand up when a gale of bitter wind surged through the window and threw him backward. His arms spun as he tried to catch his balance, but the wind held him captive until it smashed him against the opposite wall. Eyes squeezed shut, he struggled to free himself, but the winds buffeted him without relent. After three tries, he found the connection to the Imuvar dominion fueling the winds and sliced it apart. Suddenly unsuspended, he fell to his knees. A blinding light shone through the window. Something was building outside the villa, over the figures on the lawn. Horace felt its power coalescing, a combination of at least two dominions. It was time to abandon ship. Staying on his hands and knees, he scurried toward the door. He opened it just in time.
The concussion lifted Horace across the threshold and into the hallway. He landed on his side, jamming his elbow hard against the floor. Gasping through clenched teeth, he fumbled his way to his feet. The hallway was dark. The floor, he noticed, was slightly askew. This whole damned house is coming down.