Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (16 page)

“An extract of honeymint and the bark of the
sarbatu
tree. It will nourish your skin and make the shaving easier.”

It occurred to Horace, as she stood over him with a steel razor, that his life was literally in her hands. He held still as the blade ran across his neck, but breathed easier after a few strokes. She had a sure hand, and within a short time he was relaxed enough to enjoy the sensation of being shaved, surrendering to the hot water and the bubbles and the slick whisk of the razor across his skin.

“May I ask you something?” she asked.

Horace let his eyes droop half-closed. “Sure.”

“I've heard rumors among the palace servants. They say a storm struck your entourage on its way across the desert. They also say that you saved everyone. Is that true?”

He recalled the sensations he'd experienced in the cell, the feeling of lightness and the seed of hot and cold in his chest, and suddenly he felt empty. “I suppose it is.”

He told her what he remembered of the storm, but just like when he'd told the queen, he didn't have any way to explain his actions or the results. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. It was unbelievable.”

“It's amazing,” she said.

“I don't know. Lord Isiratu didn't seem pleased.”

“You shamed him, sire.” Alyra wiped his face with a wet towel. “You succeeded where he and Lord Ubar had failed. According to the law, you had the right to take his life, had you so wished.”

“That's crazy. I didn't even know what I was doing.”

“All the more impressive, my lord.”

Horace reached up to find his chin smooth and tingling. “Do all
zoanii
have this power of sorcery?”

“Yes, sire. It is what makes them
zoanii
.”

“And they are the ruling class of this land.”

“That's right.”

“Are all children of the
zoanii
also sorcerers?”

“Often that is the case, especially with the older bloodlines. Or so I've been told. Yet sometimes there are children born without the
zoana
, which is why producing a true-born heir is so important. Such is the case of Lord Isiratu. Lord Ubar is his sixth son, by a third wife, but the first among his children to possess the power. Very sad.”

“What happens to the children without it?”

“It is not spoken about,” she said, “but some are killed by their families to rid them of the shame. Many are sent to the temples to become priests and priestesses.”

Horace imagined all those unwanted children, consigned to lives of prayer. “I've seen some of these Akeshian priests. Why do some wear yellow robes and others red?”

“The clergy of the pantheon wear many different-color robes, sire. Among the Sun Cult, the ministers wear gold, while the members of the Order wear red.”

“The order?”

“The Order of the Crimson Flame. They are responsible for enforcing the temple's edicts.”

“Like a private army?”

“Somewhat, sire. The Order's members are chosen at a very young age and train for many years.”

That sounded like a secret society. Arnos had them, too, although they were mainly political movements. “How are they chosen?”

“They all possess
zoana
.”

She said it as a matter of simple fact, but a chill ran down Horace's back. More sorcery. It seemed like it was everywhere in this forsaken country. “Wait. So they are sorcerers, but not
zoanii
?”

“Yes, sire. Once accepted into the Order, they disavow all former ties, including the bonds of family and rank, to serve the Sun Temple.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“There are many reasons, sire. Some members of the Order were orphans raised by the temple. Others committed an offense against their family or liege. Please, excuse me.”

Alyra left the chamber, and Horace took the opportunity to hop out of the tub. His legs wobbled a little as he stepped onto the floor. He started to reach for his clothes and then realized they were gone.

She probably took them to burn, and I can't blame her.

Dripping wet, Horace looked around for something to put on. He opened a cabinet but found only more sponges and a row of small bottles. He was just closing the door when Alyra reappeared. Horace covered his groin with his hands as he stood there, dripping water on the tile floor. She offered him a robe. As soon as the fabric touched his skin, Horace looked down in wonder. He had never worn silk before. The robe was a rich burgundy color with a black border and wide cuffs at the wrists. Alyra tied the sash around his waist in an intricate knot that resembled a flower blossom. While he was admiring the garment, she held out a swath of material that looked like a tiny hammock of black silk. It took Horace a moment to realize it was some form of undergarment. His face heating up again, he took it from her and bent away as he slipped it on. The garment felt strange, riding up between his legs and into the crack of his behind. As he moved his hips from side to side, trying to get the thing to sit right without adjusting himself in front of her, Alyra assisted him in putting on a pair of sandals. He felt a little odd as she knelt to help him, but the sandals fit so well, the soft leather molding to his feet like they had been made specifically for him, that he forgot his qualms.

“Does everyone dress this way here?” he asked.

She stood up and began to put on her clothes. “This is the customary garb for a
zoanii
man of the
do'jun
, the tenth rank, sire. You must look presentable for your private audience with the queen.”

Horace was about to tell her that he wasn't
zoanii
, that this was all a big mistake, but her mention of a private audience stole his attention. “I'm going to see the queen again?”

“Yes. Right now, in fact.”

A loud knock echoed from the front room.

“Excuse me,” Alyra said, and she hurried away to answer it.

He followed, dreading the upcoming interview. The queen's presence had been powerful and alluring when he saw her in the great chamber. He wasn't
comfortable with the idea of meeting her in a private setting. He couldn't help wondering if this was all just a hoax, some cruel torture designed by his captors to lull him into complacency before they tossed him back into a cell.

Alyra opened the door, and two soldiers in scale armor entered. They both stopped in the atrium and placed a fist over their hearts.

“They are here to escort you, sire,” Alyra said.

Horace tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. “All right. I suppose this is it.”

“May the blessing of Sippa be upon you,” she said, bowing to him.

Not sure how to respond, Horace nodded as he left the suite. He impressed himself by not stumbling, even though his legs were still shaky and his stomach flipped somersaults. More soldiers waited in the hallway outside the apartment. They fell in around him.

As Horace followed them through the confusing corridors of the palace, he considered his options. He supposedly possessed some great power. What if he lashed out with it? Would it be enough to subdue these men and let him escape? But then he considered that he was alone, a stranger in a strange city with many leagues between him and the shore. Even if he made it back to the beach, what then? It wasn't like he could spread his arms and fly home. No, he was well and truly trapped. His best option was to keep his head on straight and try to come up with a reasonable plan. So he watched everything, trying to memorize the route they took, the chambers they passed.

The soldiers led him up a flight of pristine white marble steps to a door made of a lustrous red wood. Horace took a deep breath as they pulled it open and stood aside. If he thought the apartment he was staying in was lavish, he had no words for what he saw before him. The atrium at the front of the suite was large enough to hold a feast, its floor inlaid with a beautiful mosaic of cut glass in swirling patterns of sky-blue, turquoise, and white. The walls were covered in golden plaster upon which rows of colorful figures had been painted. Horace felt like he was walking through an art gallery, the lifelike eyes following his every step. On the left was a battle scene involving two armies of easterners. The details were exquisite down to the links of mail in their armor. The painting on the right was a landscape showing a great city on the banks of a green river. He
knew it at once for this city, Erugash, though in the picture the mighty palace was only half-built with tiny scaffolds clinging to its sloped sides.

Two soldiers—freakishly big men in mail armor—stood at attention flanking the door on the far side of the chamber. Large, curved swords rested against their shoulders.

Horace took a few steps into the chamber and stopped, clasping his hands before him. Then a young woman walked out between the soldiers. She couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve and wore a sheer tunic, unbelted so it billowed around her slim figure. Horace smiled at her until he noticed the gold collar around her neck. He had to remind himself this was a heathen land, and
he
was the outsider.

The girl motioned for him to follow, so he did, passing between the huge guards and into an even larger chamber. The interior room had a high ceiling, and the far wall was open to the sky. The side walls were limned with colorful frescoes that reminded Horace of the paintings in the cathedral of St. Ephrates. The men in the pictures wore long, square-cut beards and bright garb. They had such haughty expressions that he thought they might be kings, and the women queens, perhaps. Then he noticed the clouds under their feet and the stars twinkling around them.

Not kings. Gods.

He studied the paintings as the girl left him alone. He didn't hear anyone else enter until a contralto voice made him turn quickly. “Welcome, Horace of Arnos.”

The queen stood behind him. Her hair was down, the inky-black tresses cascading almost down to her waist. A dress of white silk clung to her curves, and a jade amulet the size of a chicken egg hung around her neck. Two servant girls, both wearing delicate gold collars, entered behind the queen. Smiling, they sat on a cushioned divan in a corner of the room and took up a game that involved rolling clay dice and moving wooden pegs across a marble tile.

Horace made an awkward bow to the queen, not sure if he was supposed to kneel or kiss anything. “No chains this time, Your Excellence?”

“I don't think we'll need them, do you?” Queen Byleth smiled as she sauntered toward him, as elegant as a leopardess prowling through the jungle.

“Ah, no, Your Excellence. I, er…”

Stop staring at her, idiot!

Horace cleared his throat. “If I may say, you speak flawless Arnossi.”

“I had very good tutors.” She stopped before him, one hand placed on her hip. “As a girl, I wished that I would someday visit the countries of the West.”

“That would be…something.” He grasped for something witty to say and failed. Instead, he tried to steer the conversation toward the thing nearest his heart: going home. “Perhaps that day will come when our nations can meet in friendship. I would like that very much.”

“Would you?” The queen looked to the painting again. “I see you were admiring the murals. Are you a lover of art?”

“Ah, not exactly. I mean, it's very beautiful.”

“It's called
Nura'in Anunnaka
. The Lights of Heaven. At the top is the god Endu, lord of the sky, with Enkath the Earth-lord and Temmu the Water-lady at his sides. They are the elder gods of Akeshia.”

“And the smaller people around them?” he asked.

“They are the children of the elder gods. That one with the golden eyes is Amur, the lord of the sun. His twin sister there is Sippa, the moon.”

As the queen named each of the divinities and the part of the natural world they embodied, Horace couldn't believe he was actually talking to royalty. Her beauty was bewitching, making it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. “Do you know what I like most about this mural, Master Horace?” she asked.

“No.” He added a hasty, “Your Excellence.”

“The violence.”

Horace looked at the painting again. It was certainly a beautiful masterpiece, but he didn't see any hint of violence. “I don't understand.”

The queen pointed to the god of storms. “See Harutuk and the way he is turned away from Kishar, his earth-bound bride? Why does he hold his hand behind his back so? What is he hiding from her? In the legends, Harutuk poisons his wife before regretting it and questing to the depths of the underworld to find her. So is he hiding more poison, ready to repeat his crime? Or is that the antidote, held ready in case she should try to get even with him?”

She indicated a small woman sitting in the corner by herself. “And here is Erimu, the mother of the gods.”

Horace leaned over to get a better look at the small figure and by doing so placed himself closer to the queen. The scent of her perfume filled his head, sweet like a blend of flower blossoms and lemon. “If she's their mother, why is she alone in the corner?”

“See the cut across her neck and the chains around her ankles? She was killed by her own children and entombed under the earth. But she has a secret. Look in her sleeve.”

Horace saw what she meant. A thin, serpentine tail curled around the goddess's wrist and disappeared into her clothing. Near the neckline, a reptilian head emerged, sprouting sharp fangs. Another head peeked from under the hem of her gown.

“She has other children as well,” the queen said. “And they wait for the day when they can avenge their mother.”

Horace stepped back from the mural. He never would have seen those details if they hadn't been pointed out. The queen regarded him. “Akeshia's politics are not unlike her myths. Polite and cultured on the surface, but teeming with danger underneath.”

He had no idea why she was telling him this, but he nodded. “I will keep that in mind, Your Excellence.”

“That is a curious title,” she said. “Is that how the royalty of your homeland are addressed?”

“I apologize, Your…well, I don't think so. We usually refer to our king as ‘Majesty’ or ‘Highness,’ but I was unsure how it was done here, so I just said what came to mind. I'm very sorry if I offended.”