Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (12 page)

The procession halted before another pair of immense doors. Horace had trouble swallowing when he saw the tall valves reflecting in the torchlight. Like the top of this building, they appeared to be made from gold. He tried estimating how much they must weigh and what each of them would be worth just based on their material alone, but the numbers staggered his imagination.

Two men stood in front of the doors with their arms crossed. They were perhaps in their midtwenties and so alike in appearance—the same style of tight-fitting robe across their muscled shoulders and chests, long skirts, and black as squid ink from collar to hem—that he thought they must be related. Then he looked closer. They had to be twins. One had short, dark hair, spiked in the front, while the other wore his hair long and shaggy.

Lord Mulcibar spoke with the men. Horace couldn't hear what was said, but the two brothers turned and made pushing motions with their hands. The hairs on the back of Horace's neck stood up as the huge doors opened. No one stood behind the doors, no straining slaves or apparatus that he could see. It looked as if the men had opened them with a mere gesture.

More sorcery.

Horace's manacles clinked as the procession started moving again. Beyond the doors was another chamber. He had thought the entry chamber was huge, but the one before him dwarfed it in every aspect. He stood on what looked like an acre of white marble. Rows of colossal pillars festooned
with golden scrollwork marched down the sides of the hall. Sunlight poured down from dozens of skylights to illuminate a raised platform at the far end of the chamber. The platform, like the palace itself, had several tiers. A squad of soldiers stood along the bottom, their features hidden behind full helmets. Above them sat twelve old men in somber scarlet robes. A magnificent ivory-and-gold throne rested on the highest tier. The seat was vacant. Behind it, a purple curtain spanned the entire back wall.

A crowd waited in the chamber, all bedecked in splendid apparel and jewels. The men favored elaborate tunics with short capes. The women were garbed in long, flowing dresses that, despite being sheer where the fabric wasn't gathered, were almost plain in comparison with the men's attire. The women also wore pigments around their eyes in a variety of shades. Everyone moved out of the way as the twins entered at the head of the procession. Horace didn't flinch from the glances cast in his direction as he was marched into the hall. A cool draft circulated through the chamber, such as he had experienced at Lord Isiratu's palace. He sighed as the sweat dried off him.

By the Almighty, what a blessing! I know the True Church doesn't truck with sorcery, but it might make an exception for this.

As Horace swallowed the tiny blasphemy of his thoughts, he noticed a familiar face. Lord Isiratu stood at the foot of the platform, flanked by his son Ubar and Nasir. Ubar wore the same quizzical expression he'd shown often during the trek to Erugash. Yet both Lord Isiratu and Nasir stood stone-faced like first-day recruits being reviewed by the High Marshal of the King's Army.

The robed twins ascended to the step just below the empty throne and turned to face the throng. As they looked down from this height, Horace felt an uncomfortable stirring in his gut. Tingles ran across his scalp and down the back of his neck, and all of a sudden the chain binding his wrists felt ten times heavier, as if the manacles were pulling him down to the floor. He strained, breathing through gritted teeth, to remain upright.

The heaviness vanished as the curtain parted and two people emerged, a man and a woman walking arm in arm. The man was draped in a white silk tunic, open at the chest to reveal a large golden amulet in the shape of a blazing sun. Yet it was the woman who drew Horace's attention. A purple silk gown
covered her from the neck down. The sheer fabric clung to her body so that even the mere act of walking was transformed into a thing of beauty. Tearing his gaze away from her outfit, Horace looked to her face and was enthralled all over again. Her features were narrow, refined in a way he'd only seen in paintings, but her eyes were wide and dark, outlined in black kohl. Her rich, midnight hair was braided and piled in a tower atop her head, the plaits interwoven with slender gold chains in a look both stunning and demure at the same time. This could be no one other than the queen of Erugash. The entire crowd fell to its knees, lords and ladies alike, as she took her place on the throne. The man sat on a smaller chair beside her.

Horace didn't have time to decide whether or not he should kneel. The nearest soldiers seized his arms and shoved him down on the floor. His face pressed to the stone, he held himself rigid in anger, until clothing rustled and people began to rise. Horace tried to push himself from the floor, but the soldiers continued to hold him down. He struggled in their grasp, but they were too strong, and he was hampered by the chains.

He ceased fighting when the queen spoke in a cool, clear voice. Then the soldiers pulled Horace to his feet. He yanked his arms from their grasp. Everyone was watching him again, staring like he was an oddity at a village faire.

“Master Horace,” Lord Mulcibar said, “the queen wishes to know how you came to this land and under what intentions.”

Horace gazed up at her again. His embarrassment fell away, and the only thing he could think about was her. He answered at once. “
Sobhe'etu
…”

He hesitated, realizing he had forgotten to ask the proper way to address a queen in this land. So he uttered the first thing that came to mind. “…Your Excellence. I was a crewman aboard a ship out of Arnos. We were hit by a storm and driven south. Then the ship went under, and I washed up on your shore.”

“What was your vessel's mission?”

“We were carrying soldiers to Etonia to fight the heath—”

Lord Mulcibar spoke in Akeshian, but every eye was on Horace. “Yes,” the nobleman said when he had finished translating. “To fight whom?”

“Your people, my lord.” Horace braced himself. He had decided to be honest with these people. If they were magicians, they might know he was
lying and hold it against him. If he was going to hang, he would go to the gallows telling the truth.

No one seemed surprised when Mulcibar translated his answer. The queen spoke at some length. Meanwhile, the man sitting beside her reclined in his seat, looking uninterested, and drank from a golden cup.

Lord Mulcibar turned back to Horace. “Her Radiant Majesty asks if you know where Lord Isiratu was taking you before I arrived. Be aware that the other slaves have already been interrogated, and any lie will be punished most harshly.”

Horace tried to recall the name of the town where he'd heard they were going, but it escaped him. “I think it was Nissa or something like that.”

“Do you mean Nisus?” Lord Mulcibar asked.

“Yes, that's it.”

As the nobleman interpreted, soft murmurs rippled through the crowd. Lord Isiratu burst out in a barrage of angry words. The queen lifted a finger, and Isiratu shut his mouth, his face purple and shining with sweat. The queen's expression remained neutral, though still lovely. Horace noticed how the black jewels in her golden necklace complemented her eyes.

“Are you quite sure?” Lord Mulcibar asked. “Lord Isiratu was taking you to the city of Nisus?”

Horace shifted his weight, and the chains clinked. “That's what I was told. Something about giving us to a temple.”

Lord Mulcibar spoke to the queen at some length. Horace couldn't make out enough to give him a gist of what was being discussed. Yet, by their expressions, and the heated look on Isiratu's face, it was something bad. Finally, the queen stood up and spoke to the hall. Her words carried a heavy finality that leaked through despite the language barrier. When she was done, two soldiers came forth and flanked Lord Isiratu. The nobleman bowed to the queen and then walked away with the soldiers. His son and Nasir followed behind. As he was escorted out, Lord Isiratu shot a hard glance at Horace. Ubar nodded to him as if nothing had happened. Nasir ignored him completely.

Horace sidled a few steps closer to Mulcibar. “What just happened?”

“Lord Isiratu has been found guilty of disloyalty to the crown. He is
stripped of lands and title, and will henceforth be demoted to the
hekatatum
caste.”

Horace looked back over his shoulder where Lord Isiratu and his retinue were leaving the chamber. “What are heka—whatever you said?”

“They are the warrior society of Akeshia. It is not a dishonorable path for those of common birth, but for a
zoanii
such as Isiratu…”

It's a fall from grace, and a hard one.
“What will happen to his family?”

“Most will accompany him in his lesser station. His heir, Lord Ubar, may be taken in by another
zoanii
family as a ward. With time and patience, he may yet achieve a dignified rank.”

The atmosphere in the hall had turned taciturn with the ejection of Isiratu, but the queen behaved as if nothing had happened. She asked a question, and Mulcibar translated, “Her Glorious Radiance wishes to hear your account of the storm that struck Lord Isiratu's caravan.”

A cold sweat formed on Horace's forehead and under his clothes. He'd been avoiding those memories in his own mind because he didn't understand what had happened, and part of him didn't ever want to know. He considered lying or faking forgetfulness but then recalled Lord Mulcibar's advice.
Be honest. Many have tried to dissemble with Her Majesty, and they all paid for it.

So he told the story as best as he was able to remember, until he got to the part where Isiratu fell. “With all honesty,” he said, “I can't explain what happened after that. I felt a surge of energy like my heart was going to burst. Then the next thing I knew, the storm was gone.”

As Lord Mulcibar interpreted, the queen watched Horace with a fierce intensity that made him uncomfortable. He'd never been timid with the fairer sex, but this woman radiated power. Once Mulcibar was done, the old men seated on the platform's middle tier spoke among themselves, and conversation broke out among those in the hall. Horace itched to know what they were saying about him. It was maddening to be surrounded by chatter and not be able to understand it. But he did catch two words being passed around:
zoanii
and
amenakru
, the latter of which may have meant “enemy,” but he wasn't sure.

The queen appeared about to say something, but a loud voice rang out from the crowd. People parted, making way for a tall man in a silver breastplate
over a purple silk chiton. His complexion was darker than many in the crowd, almost coppery. His hair and eyebrows were jet black. He wore a sword at his side; the pommel gleamed with a ruby the size of a knucklebone. The tall man continued to speak, throwing his words at the throne even as he stared in Horace's direction.

Before Horace could ask what was happening, Lord Mulcibar said, “That is Prince Zazil, brother to the queen and commander of the royal legions. He has asked why the savage foreigner—you—has been allowed into this hallowed hall. And Her Majesty replied that she wished to see you in person.”

Horace rubbed his wrists where the manacles were chafing. “I take it he doesn't like my people much.”

“Considering that His Highness has spent the last several years fighting on the frontier, I surmise you would be correct. Tread carefully, Master Horace. The prince is not one to cross.”

Not that I have much choice, chained up and surrounded.

While the prince continued his tirade, Horace noticed something. It was subtle, but Lord Mulcibar inched forward, placing himself between Horace and the prince.

The queen spoke, and the prince fell quiet, though he cast a menacing glare at Horace. Lord Mulcibar bowed before translating. “The prince, has expressed a wish to test the foreign devil—ah, you again—in a duel. But the queen is more interested in hearing your story. Her Majesty asks how she can be sure you are not a spy. Your arrival on our shores, the lone survivor of your ship, is very convenient. Not to mention your abilities.”

Horace considered his words. The prince was still glaring at him with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if he was waiting for any excuse to pull it out and chop off Horace's head.

The bastard looks like he might enjoy that.

“Please tell Her Majesty that I am only a shipwright. If there's something special about me, I did not know it before I arrived in your land. And I would happily depart back to my own country if she would permit it.”

He winced inside at the smartness of his last words but clamped his mouth shut before he could retract them. The nobleman raised an eyebrow,
but he translated without any trace of ire that Horace could detect. While Horace waited to hear the queen's reply, he glanced around the chamber. The platform and the main exit were surrounded, but he noted several other doors that appeared unguarded, at least from this side. His hands were shackled, but not his legs. If he had to flee, he could try to squeeze through the crowd and get to one of those side exits—

The queen's laughter interrupted his thoughts, the melodic notes forcing him to look up. For a moment, Horace could understand why people might worship her. She was too beautiful to be real. Through her mirth, she talked to Lord Mulcibar and then gestured to Horace.

“The queen,” Mulcibar said with a small smile, “says she will take your request under…ah, advisement. In the meantime, she wishes to further discuss your role in the quelling of the storm. When you say that the power surged—”

A loud voice resounded through the hall. Lord Mulcibar stopped talked and looked back toward the main doors where a group of bald men stood on the threshold. By their body language—straightened shoulders, lifted chins, mouths pinched into firm lines—they appeared like they were about to plunge into battle. The man in front of the group had wide shoulders and a powerful chest contained within a pale gold robe that contrasted with his bronze skin. Vivid red and indigo tattoos covered his scalp. He held a wooden staff topped by a golden orb—a sun, by its look, complete with a corona of sharp rays. The ornate headpiece reminded Horace of the scepter held by the Archpriest at St. Ephrates’ Basilica when he blessed the crusaders before they boarded the ships—the golden suns were almost exactly the same.