Storm and Steel (27 page)

The rising sun cast his shadow far ahead of him as he headed home.

The final images of the scene decayed into sepia emptiness as she withdrew her power. Horace leaving Astaptah's carriage. Standing on the street outside the Moon Temple as the vehicle drove off. Then her First Sword walked away, his head down as if deep in thought.

Byleth released Kelcia's head as the memories evaporated between them. She didn't like seeing her vizier conferencing with her First Sword, especially without her knowledge and consent. Lord Astaptah was difficult to control; she did not want him influencing Horace. Even worse, she didn't want to imagine what kinds of plots the two might hatch together. If there was a more volatile and dangerous pair of men in the empire outside of the Imperial Court, she didn't want to know. Standing up from the chair where she'd been sitting during the mind-scrying, she sent the girl back out into the street to follow Horace. That was as much as she could do at the moment.

Byleth glanced at Lady Anshara, who stood in the doorway of the antechamber they had borrowed. “Go home, my dear. Mourn for your uncle.”

The woman lifted her chin. “With all respect, Majesty, my place is here. This is where I wish to be, doing my duty. My uncle would expect no less.”

“As you wish.”

Byleth took a deep breath and walked down the wide corridor bisecting the Moon Temple's second-highest tier. They'd left Xantu and the rest of her bodyguard below in the main chamber out of deference; no males were allowed above the ground floor of the temple. But Lady Anshara was more than enough protection, especially here in the heart of the crown's most ardent supporters. Byleth felt more at ease amid these pale-blue hallways than she
often did in her own palace. There was something calming about this place, or perhaps it was the serene looks on the faces of the priestesses here, old and young. She felt like she was among sisters.

The door at the end of the hallway was watched by two ancient priestesses. They sat on stools outside the door, combing flax from large baskets into long strands. Byleth paused for a moment to watch with awe their spindly fingers, working the fibers with amazing dexterity. As they worked, they hummed a tune together. She didn't recognize it as first, but then she realized they were humming a widow's dirge. Frowning, Byleth passed between them.

The high priestess's cell was a plain affair, barely as large as Byleth's bathing chamber. Rough plaster covered the walls and ceiling without decoration save for a coating of light-blue paint, which was chipped and cracked in several places. A narrow cot sat against the far wall, flanked by a chamberpot and a small washstand. In a niche over the bed was a simple idol of Sippa in alabaster. Heat radiated from a small fireplace and two coal-filled braziers.

Three young novices stood around the high priestess, looking as if they were about to cry. They held a sheet of black cloth in front of the bed as Byleth entered. It was an old ceremonial tradition to separate the dying from the living with a symbolic veil of death.

“Leave us,” came a wan voice from the bed.

The novices hesitated a moment, until the high priestess waved them away with a frail hand. “Go, my darlings.”

The young girls sidled past Byleth and fled into the hallway. The queen closed the door behind them.

“They mean well, the poor children. Help me up.”

High Priestess Iltani looked painfully old. The linen undershift hung loose on her bony frame, and the age spots down her cheeks and across the backs of her hands appeared darker in the pale lamplight. Her silver hair tumbled loose about her shoulders.
When did she get so old? She looks like she's about to break apart at any moment.

Byleth hurried to help her sit up, grabbing a cushion from the foot of the bed and placing it behind the old woman for support. As she did so, she probed the priestess with a trickle of
zoana
. She'd never had much talent for
healing. She could do little more than determine whether the old woman's heart was failing, its rhythm fluttering every few beats, causing blood to pool in the large arteries. But the high priestess had already been seen by the best healers in the city. She was simply dying, and nothing could stop that.

The priestess leaned back with a sigh. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Byleth flicked her fingers. “Please, no titles. Not today.”

“As you wish. But if you're going to stay, you'll have to make yourself useful. Fetch me that cup. My throat's as dry as the desert. I can't seem to make enough moisture anymore.”

Byleth got the cup and refilled it from a pitcher on the washstand, noticing as she poured that it was wine instead of water. She brought it over with two hands. “I hope this isn't from the goddess's sacred vintage.”

Iltani chuckled as she accepted the cup. “That swill? No, this is the good stuff. Lord Mulcibar's steward sent it over yesterday, and I've been sampling it vigorously.”

The queen couldn't help but smile at the old woman's words. “I think you're justified.”

“Of course I am! I'm dying. Oh, don't bother shaking your head. I know it. I've known for months. I have my good days and bad days, and lately the bad days have been taking over. It's the way of things, that's all.”

Byleth sat on the side of the bed and placed her hand on the priestess's arm. The bones felt like kindling under the thin sleeve of the shift. She tried to subdue the feelings bubbling inside her, but they climbed up her throat anyway, putting an annoying quiver in her voice. “You'll be missed, you know? Especially by me. There aren't a lot of people I can talk to.”

“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Byleth. Life is hard, for queens as well as washerwomen and net-haulers. Your father had it harder, let me tell you. He didn't have half your ability with the
zoana
, and he was forever putting out fires inside his own court because of it. He had to forge strong alliances to win the proper respect, and even then most of the nobility were licking their chops to see him fall. No, child. I won't permit any peevishness in here. Lift up your chin! There you go. That's the girl I remember.”

Byleth laughed despite the tears spilling down her face. “That's what I
mean. No one else tells me the truth. I'm not complaining. I'm just trying to say no one will ever replace you.”

“Sadly, that's not true. There will be a new high priestess of this temple soon, and you'd be wise to bind her to you as soon as possible. You're intent on rolling the dice, child. Yes, I can see it in your eyes. You've been planning something, and what happened on the
Tammuris
was only the tip of the spear. I almost feel bad for your enemies. Well, not really. The bastards deserve every bit of what they've got coming.”

“Iltani! Cursing in the temple? They'll bury you out behind the refuse pits.”

The high priestess took another sip. “It's a distinct possibility. But the goddess is forgiving. She knows we're all flawed vessels.”

“This flawed vessel could use some good advice.”

“I'm sorry, but that's in short supply these days.” The high priestess reached up to pat Byleth's cheek. “Trust in yourself, child. And trust in the gods who created us and breathed the spirit of life into our bodies. These are the secrets of success. Now go. I'm feeling tired.”

“Of course. Is there anything you need?”

“No, I'm content. But thank you for coming to see me. It was my last wish, and the Lady made it come true.”

Byleth blinked through her tears, nodding as she got up and went to the door. She thought she heard a whisper behind her, the words so soft she couldn't be sure, but they had sounded like a blessing. Or a lullaby.

The queen opened the door. Without looking back, she whispered, “Good-bye.”

Horace returned home to find a crowd outside his gates. More than fifty people—men, women, and even a few children—chanted and banged small drums, and a few even danced in feverish circles. Then someone spotted him, and the multitude fell silent as they turned to him.

“
Belzama!
” a person cried from the crowd.

At once, all heads bowed.

Horace ground his teeth.
What do you want from me? I don't have any answers. I'm not special. I'm not even good. If you only knew the truth….

But he said nothing. He followed his guards through the crowd, wincing as the gate clanged shut, separating him from the outside.

Once inside the house, he wandered the upper floor of the manor. His brain felt scrambled with all the things rattling around inside it. He was tired but didn't feel like sleeping. He wanted peace and quiet, but he was afraid to be alone.

Alyra's door was closed. He was tempted to see if she was in but pushed the thought away. She wanted her space, and he could respect that. Perhaps if things kept going along this path, he would find her another place to live. A nice apartment in the city, maybe near the royal gardens. Yet the mere thought of her leaving drove a spike through his heart and made everything he was feeling worse.

His meandering took him into the east wing to his solarium. The room was large, but it felt close because of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases built into the side walls. The east wall was dominated by a stained glass window as big as a dinner table. The orange, red, blue, and green slices of glass cast a mosaic of lights across the hardwood floor. The air was warm and smelled of paper.

Most of the books on the shelves had come with the house. They covered a wide range of subjects from farming techniques to astrology. Horace had read a few of them already, using them to bolster his grasp of the Akeshian language.

A long desk of yellow wood sat beneath the stained glass window. It was low to the floor in the Akeshian style, with a padded stool in place of a chair. Since he didn't spend much time in here, preferring to work in his office at the palace, he hadn't taken the time to change the furniture. As he walked over to the desk, he saw the wooden chest he'd brought back from Mulcibar's estate, tucked behind a map stand. Seized by sudden curiosity, and more than a little melancholy since the funeral, Horace pulled the chest over to the desk. He opened the latches and started to lift the lid but paused, remembering the day Mulcibar had educated him on the many devious ways that containers
could be trapped with malicious sorcery. He was about to tap into his
zoana
to examine the trunk more closely, but the lethargy that had haunted him since waking up convinced him it would be fine.
I'll take my chances.

Inside were a variety of items. Two leather-bound books were stacked beneath a bundle of papyrus scrolls. Horace scanned the scrolls as he placed them on the desk. They read like journal entries at first glance, but as he read further Horace got the gist that they were research notes. The topics included religion, astronomy, mathematics, and architectural drafting. He even found a treatise on the construction of a new kind of sailing vessel, larger than anything he'd ever seen. Impressed, he dug back into the trunk.

The books were studies on magical theory, both written by Mulcibar. Horace picked them up eagerly and fanned open the gilded pages. The script was strange—Akeshian but in a style he'd never seen before. There were diagrams as well, showing geometric shapes with lines and labels in the same script. They reminded him a little of engineering plans, but it only took a minute for him to realize these volumes went far beyond his meager understanding of the magical arts. He put them on the desk as well, determined to study them later.

On the bottom were several objects wrapped in oilskin cloth. Horace took them out one at a time. The first was a sailor's sextant in brass, which gave him a chuckle. Was Mulcibar trying to remind him of his seafaring past? Perhaps it was an admonition to never lose your bearings.
Or maybe the old man just liked to collect odd knickknacks.

The next parcel turned out to be a set of pens in a lacquered box, complete with two inkwells and a pearl-handled sharpening knife. He put that aside also, thinking it would look good in his office at the palace.