Storm and Steel (30 page)

Her voice was angry, almost raw, which added to his surprise. Although he'd heard her use that tone before, it had never been leveled at him before. “I received a lot of reports today, Excellence? Which one are you—?”

Her attack was so swift he didn't even have time to react. One moment he was talking, and the next he was thrown up against the wall behind his desk. A stiff wind scattered his papers across the room. Horace almost reached for his power, just to pry himself free, until he saw Lord Xantu and Lady Anshara enter the room behind the queen. He hung in the grasp of the invisible air fist holding him upright without struggling.

“The report,” Byleth said, “from the governor of Sekhatun. The one detailing the
six
separate attacks in that region in the last two moons. Forty-seven of my soldiers have been killed and more than a hundred injured. Ambushed by rebel slaves, First Sword. The same slaves you are supposed to be bringing to heel. Instead, they are running wild across my lands. Even worse, they are setting slaves free wherever they strike. Do you understand how that makes me look?”

The fist of air tightened around his chest. Horace gritted his teeth against the pain. “I'm doing every—thing—I can.”

“My nobles are anxious, First Sword. They want to see retribution for their loss of property. They want blood.”

The pressure across his chest increased. Horace started to push the queen's power away, but then he noticed the presence in the back of his mind again, watching this incident unfold. He got the strange feeling it was…amused.

Byleth's delicate brows came together in a frown, faint lines creasing her forehead. She waved her hand, and the force holding Horace against the wall vanished. “No more excuses!”

Horace landed on his feet. His knees shook as he took a moment to catch his breath. “Yes, Excellence.”

She beckoned over her shoulder with a finger. “By the way, this came for you today with the afternoon reports. I thought I would deliver it in person.”

Lord Xantu carried in a wooden box. The queen crossed her arms over her chest as it was placed on his desk. “It's a gift,” she said. “From the rebels.”

The box was square, about a foot wide on each side, and made from some light wood like cedar or pine. Xantu flipped open a latch at the top, and one side of the box fell open. Horace scrambled back as the contents stared back at him. He turned aside and vomited into the corner, unable to get the sight of Ubar's severed head from his mind. Especially the eyes. Shiny like glass, they stabbed at him.

When he stopped heaving, Horace sat on the floor with his head in his hands. He couldn't bring himself to look at the box. “What happened?”

“Apparently Lord Ubar went to meet with the rebel leadership on a mission of peace. I don't know who gave him the idea such a mission was sanctioned by myself. In any case, they killed him and sent this back. What do you think that means, First Sword?”

Horace couldn't answer. He didn't want to believe Jirom would do such a thing. Ubar had been young and bright, the perfect emissary to carry his message. There must have been some miscommunication. The only other alternative was that he had made a grave mistake trying to reach an accord with the rebels.

“Pack your belongings, First Sword,” Byleth said as she turned to the door. “My sources inform me that the rebels will strike for Sekhatun itself next. Tomorrow you leave to take care of this matter once and for all.”

Lady Anshara gave Horace a curious look, as if she were trying to empathize
with him but found the chasm between them too great to cross, before she followed the queen out of his office. The rest of the royal entourage filtered behind. Lord Xantu was the last to leave. He glanced at the box and said, “He deserved better than this.”

Watching them go, Horace could only agree.
Yes, he did. He deserved the chance to grow up and experience life, perhaps have a family. Now all that is gone, eradicated with the stroke of a sword. And for what? It accomplished nothing. His death was meaningless.

The box flew off his desk and shattered against the wall. The contents smashed into a pulpy red mass. Horace clamped down on the
zoana
burning through his veins, afraid he might truly lose control. Sharp pain seared through his skull.

Mezim poked his head in the door and then darted out again without a word.

Horace picked himself up. His head was pounding as if tiny hammers were working the inside of his temples. He spared a glance at the mess he'd made, at the red trails running down the wall, and left. Mezim stood by his desk in the outer room, his face pale.

“Go home,” Horace said.

“Pardon, but I will stay. I have much work to complete before—”

“It can wait. We have a trip to prepare for.”

“I overheard. I will make the necessary arrangements. May I ask, what should be done with Lord Ubar's remains?”

“I've made a mess of that, too. Have it cleaned up and burn whatever is left. Send a letter to his family. No, wait. I'll write it myself. You can send it by courier tomorrow before we leave.”

“As you wish. I shall see you tomorrow at first light.”

Horace left the office, with his guards trailing behind. Lost in his own thoughts, he kept his head down as he walked out of the palace. Though he didn't meet anyone's gaze as he left, he imagined he could feel their eyes upon him, weighing him down like chains. Or another collar.

The brown liquor swirled like river mud around the bottom of his glass. Horace sat alone with his thoughts in the parlor. A fish-shaped bronze lamp on the table illuminated the empty room, but there was nothing worth seeing. Faded carpets, furniture that had belonged to the manor's previous owner, dark niches in the walls—the remnants of another person's life left behind to molder in the dark.

Dharma entered the parlor on soft footsteps with another amphora and set it on the table. Horace finished his glass as she broke the seal on the jar. She made to pour, but he shook his head and told her to go back to bed. He fixed himself another glass, splashing a little of the plum brandy on the floor as he settled back in the chair.

After returning from the palace, he had ensconced himself here and started drinking to relieve the crushing pressure that hung over his head. He was certain he was finished at the royal court, having failed the queen, his only ally. And tomorrow he was being sent west to deal with a problem that had no solution.
That's not true, old boy! There is a solution! Blood, and lots of it. Rivers of blood spilt from rebel veins. Enough to wash the entire city clean of its sins and buy a queen enough time to launch her bid for the empire's highest prize.

He wished he'd taken the queen's offer to go home months ago.
Maybe it's not too late? No, she's in no mood to do me any favors now.

A roll of papyrus sat on the table between the lamp and the brandy jar. He wanted to write the letter to Ubar's family himself, rather than delegate it to a scribe. He owed them that much, at least. But how did you tell someone that their loved one, a young man barely old enough to be out on his own, was dead? And not just dead but murdered, all because he had been sent into a situation without understanding the danger. Should he write that he understood how they must feel? How could he? And yet, he did on some level. Perhaps even worse. He had lost a son, right before his eyes.

Jirom, I thought I knew you better than that. I believed we could work together to
solve this problem. But now my hands are tied. I either try my best to stop you, or I lose everything.

He took another gulp from his glass, no longer tasting the brandy, only craving the oblivion it promised. He knew he would pay for it in the morning, but he'd gladly embrace the pain tomorrow if he could just escape the emptiness lurking in his heart for tonight.

The front door opened, and the guard stationed in the atrium murmured something. Horace slouched back in his chair, fighting against his first impulse, which was to rise and greet her.

She stood in the parlor doorway, facing him in the shadows. He imagined her features, drawn tight in condemnation.
She'll stand there a moment longer, and then she'll go upstairs to enclose herself in her room until the early hours of the morning. When I awake, she'll be gone again, just like a ghost floating in and out of my life.

Alyra started to move, and he braced himself to be alone again, but then she was crossing the room. He swallowed the last splash in his glass as she stopped in front of him. Her hair was slightly tangled as if she'd been caught in a fierce wind. Her clothing was plain and simple with muted colors, unlike the bright, airy things she liked to wear during the daylight hours. Despite having just drunk himself into a mild stupor, his mouth was dry.

“I heard about Ubar.”

Her voice broke through the haze hanging around his brain, threatening to shatter him into a thousand pieces, but he held it together. “I…I'm supposed to write his family, but I don't have the damnedest idea what to say.”

“You should go to bed. You'll feel better in the morning.”

He let out a long sigh. “I wish I could, but I keep thinking about the last time I saw him. He was giving me advice about the queen and other things. He was always helping me, Alyra. You know? And he never asked for anything.”

“Sounds a lot like Lord Mulcibar.”

Yes, Ubar had taken Mulcibar's place in his life, as both a teacher and a confidant. Even though he was younger, he had been so mature for his age, and so understanding. Now he was dead, just like the old man.
And I'm responsible
for both their deaths. Maybe I didn't send Mulcibar to his doom, but his helping me surely played a part in his murder. Is this all I have to look forward to? Everyone that I care about dying?

Looking up at Alyra, so beautiful in the lamplight, he wondered if she would be next. By the tightening around her eyes, he could tell she was hurting. He wanted to put his arms around her, but they remained by his sides as if tied down. Despite seeing her pain, echoing his own, Horace couldn't help himself from asking, “Where have you been?”

He tried to soften the question with “I've been worried,” but he saw right away it didn't help.

“You look like a ghost, Horace. You need to take better care of yourself. All this stress isn't good for you.”

“Now you care?”

“I'm tired. I'm going upstairs.”

He jumped to his feet, swaying as a rush of blood flooded his brain. “No! I need to talk to you now. Tomorrow I'll be gone….”

He clamped his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to reveal his special mission right away, hoping to work things out with her before he drove that wagon home. He kept talking to explain. “The queen is sending me to Sekhatun in the morning. I don't know when I'll be back.”

Her eyebrows inched closer together as she regarded him. “I know.”

He didn't know why that should surprise him. She always seemed to know more about the happenings at court than he did. “So were you going to just let me leave without saying anything?”

“I hadn't decided yet.”

“Well, that's what you're best at, isn't it? Not deciding anything.”

“If you're talking about us—”

“Of course I'm talking about us! What else is there to discuss? You've got one foot in the door here with me and the other planted in your precious network. It's obvious you can't or won't make a decision about where your priorities lie. What do your spymasters think about that?”

Alyra's eyes turned cold. One of her hands came up to rest on her hip. “Do you really want to know? Because up until now you've been happy to play
house with me while blissfully ignoring what's going on around you. I told you that you were playing with fire, but you didn't want to listen.”

“How can you stand there and say that? I've done nothing except shovel shit since the day I got here. For you, for the queen, for the court, for the rebels.”

“That's the problem, Horace. You don't have the courage to choose a side. You want so badly to please everyone that you end up blundering into one catastrophe after another.
That's
why I wasn't sure if I wanted to talk to you, because I knew this would happen. You've been blaming yourself for the things you did right and rejoicing in the things you did wrong.”

He threw his hands into the air, almost losing hold of his empty glass in the process. “What the blistering fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What happened to Ubar was horrible, but you did the right thing by trying to negotiate with the slaves.”

The pain in his chest went from hot and raw to icy cold. “How can you say that? I sent him to his death, all because I trusted a mob of murderous traitors more than the people who have helped me and given me a place in this city.”

Alyra didn't move, but she seemed to be watching him from a greater distance, as if a gaping chasm had opened between them. “That's not you talking, Horace. That's her.”

“Who? The queen? She's angry at me and she has every right to be. I should have listened to her and dealt with the rebels the right way from the beginning.”

“How is that? With whips and wooden stakes? Is that the answer you've been seeking? Or is that what she wants? Think about it, Horace. You've been a slave. You should understand what the rebellion wants and why they won't quit until they get it.”

“I thought I understood, until they sent me Ubar's head in a box.”

Alyra fell silent, her face flushed, eyes dropping away. “I don't know why that happened, but you have to trust me—”

“No, I don't. I can't be sure who you're really trying help. Me, the slaves, or the people who sent you here to spy. But it's clear you don't care about what I'm trying to accomplish here.”

She murmured something, too low for him to hear.

“You're so secretive,” he continued. “I can't even talk to you anymore.”

She lifted her eyes, which were moist with pent-up tears. “I can't talk to you either, because I don't know you anymore. You've changed.”

“You've changed, too. We used to—”

Alyra left before he could finish his statement, marching out with swift strides back to the atrium and up the stairs.

Horace sighed, wishing she'd just avoided him from the start. He felt worse than before, even emptier inside, like a vast hole had opened inside him. He poured himself another brandy, not caring that some of it spilled over the rim of the glass and drenched the table. As he drank deep, he watched the liquor soak into the papyrus roll like a tide of brown blood.

Alyra got to the top of the stairs before her legs gave out, dropping her to her knees on the cold marble landing. Her sobs came in big, ragged gasps. She'd held on as long as she could in the parlor, but now her emotions crashed down beyond her control, dragging her down into a pit of misery. She hated the things she'd said to Horace but couldn't stop herself. She knew she was losing him to the queen, day by day. And now he was leaving Erugash to strike against the very people he'd once professed to want to help. It was the worst kind of betrayal.

Yet she couldn't deny her feelings. As much as she hated what he was doing, she still loved him.
Night was right all along. He knew Horace would be the end of my usefulness to the cause. Now, after all I've done, I have nothing left. I'm alone.

With several shuddering breaths, she forced herself to her feet. She wiped her face as she hurried to her room. She couldn't stay here any longer. Every time she saw Horace it was like reopening a wound.

She went through her wardrobe, picking out the things she had to take with her. So many of the beautiful clothes she'd been given would have to stay. It was difficult to pack without knowing where she was going, so she took her
sturdiest everyday clothes and sandals. Then she realized she had nothing to put them in, and the tears threatened to start falling again. A soft knock came from the door before Dharma entered with an unhappy expression. “Pardon, my lady. But we heard the master's voice, and…are you all right?”

Alyra nodded, and the young servant girl rushed into her arms. They hugged until their sobs settled, and then Alyra told the girl her problem. Dharma left and returned a few minutes later with a canvas bag. “Cook uses this when she goes to market. I cleaned it, but it still smells a little of barley.”

“It's fine.” Alyra took the bag and started filling it with her possessions. “I'm sorry I have to leave like this, but…well, I just can't stay.”

“I understand, my lady. We all do. We know it's been difficult for you and the master. We'd hoped you two might hop a broom together, but Cook says sometimes these things just don't work out.”

Alyra nodded, not really wanting to talk about it. “Please take care of yourself and…him.”

“I will, my lady.”

“Alyra. Please, call me Alyra.”

“Yes, ma'am. You take care, too. And don't fret about the master. We'll keep him safe.”

Alyra smiled through her heartache. “I know you will.” She went to her vanity and took the things she needed—a comb, two brushes, a hand mirror, and a pouch of hair ties. She picked up the carving of a sea turtle Horace had given her. Then she put it back down and took up her bag. After another hug, she sent Dharma away.

Alone once more, Alyra set the bag on the floor and reached under her bed. She pulled out the leather satchel that held the tools of her trade. She also felt something else and pulled out a small teakwood box she didn't recognize. Goosebumps rose up and down her arms as she placed the box on her bed, knowing what this had to be. She opened it with baited breath, hoping she was wrong, and exhaled with a noisy sigh when she was not.