Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (34 page)

“We call them
idimmu
,” Mulcibar said. “Our myths are filled with them. Evil spirits that eat human flesh.”

“Lord of Light,” Horace breathed, not sure whether he could believe it or not. He'd seen the creatures himself, fought them, bled from the injuries they'd inflicted on him. Yet it still felt unreal, like a nightmare left over from childhood. “Do you know why they attacked us?”

“Not for certain, but part of the reason I've come today, besides congratulating you on your new home, is to warn you that you are now swimming in very dangerous waters.”

Horace fought back a snort, but failed. “More dangerous than washing up alone and helpless on the shore of your sworn enemies? More dangerous than being put in chains and collared like a dog?” He shook the bottle. “More dangerous than this?”

Lord Mulcibar met his gaze without blinking. “Yes. As a captive and a slave, you enjoyed certain protections. Lord Isiratu, for instance, might have had to pay recompense if he'd killed you and later found out that another
zoanii
, such as the queen, had claim to you. That's why he handed you over without protest. Once you passed into the queen's possession, she was responsible for your welfare.”

“No offense, but she put me in a fucking dungeon cell, my lord. She didn't seem too concerned about my welfare then.”

“On the contrary, you were well-treated, given food and water, and—most importantly—you were safe.”

Horace started to curse in Arnossi but stopped himself. “Are you saying I'm not anymore? Safe, that is.”

“Precisely. The court plays by a different set of rules. Status is everything. Sons will betray fathers to gain it. Wives will plot against their husbands and lovers. Nothing is beyond the pale.”

“What about the queen? Why doesn't she stop it?”

“Whatever for? Her Majesty was born into this environment. She thrives on the unending conflict and retains much of her political power by playing the factions against each other.”

Horace leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “I remember you gave me the same warning on the night of the queen's party. So I'll ask you again. What do I do?”

“Obviously, you must tread carefully. Under normal circumstances, a new member of the inner circle is tested rigorously by the others. Yet your elevation to this position is unprecedented. The court will watch and wait, seeking to know your strength before they make a move. You must use this time to your advantage.”

“What about the
idimmu
?”

“I suspect they were a blunder.”

“That's one hell of a blunder,” Horace said.

“Yes. They dwell beyond our world and must be summoned with sorcery. Not an easy feat, and one which only the darkest sorcerer would attempt.”

One person came to mind. “Gilgar's brother.”

“Lord Xantu was my first suspect. However, he is innocent as far as I can determine. If anything, he appears more upset by his late brother's treason than anyone.”

“He would appear that way,” Horace said, “if he were engaged in the same conspiracy.”

Mulcibar smiled, which deepened the lines around his eyes. “Lord Horace, I'd say you are adapting well to Akeshian society. In any case, discovering the identity of the culprit is now your duty as First Sword.”

“Lucky me,” Horace muttered.

“Yes. In the meantime, we need to work on your self-control.”

“I've been trying those exercises you taught me.”

Just thinking about them made Horace's head ache. Lord Mulcibar had instructed him in a series of mental puzzles such as studying an object, like a painting or a glass vase, then closing his eyes and trying to keep that object in his mind for a duration of several minutes. Or the opposite, emptying his
mind of all images or thoughts and remaining that way, completely blank, for a similar period of time. He'd found these exercises to be much harder than they sounded. The point, Mulcibar had said, was to focus his mind on specific tasks, and thereby strengthen his connection to the
zoana
. “But they don't seem to be working. At least, not consistently.”

The old nobleman smiled like a patient grandfather. “
Zoanii
train from the time they are children. You cannot expect to master the five arts in a single moon.”

“Five? I thought you said there were only four.”

“Each dominion comprises an art of
zoana
. The fifth art is Shinar, the study of the void.”

“What is the void?”

Mulcibar picked up his bundle and gestured to the door leading to the garden. They went outside where the bright, cloudless sky promised a fine day.

Mulcibar stopped beside the orange-fruit tree. “Now, even your learned men understand that the heavens are a distant bowl inverted above the earth. The sun and the stars travel along this celestial dish above the sky, but there is a space between the heavens and the sky. An emptiness. This is the void.”

Horace looked up. Above the roof of his house he could see the edge of the sun surrounded by blue. “I don't see anything above the sky. It's all just air.”

“Shinar cannot be seen,” Mulcibar said. “It cannot be touched or smelled either. Yet the universe is connected by emptiness. The sky above our heads, the ground beneath our feet, the space between our breaths. The void exists in all these things. Understand the nothingness, and you will understand everything.”

“It sounds…I'm sorry, but it sound like pagan nonsense. If it can't be seen or felt, what use is it?”

“When the
idimmu
attacked in your bedchamber,” Mulcibar said, “which dominion did you employ to drive them away?”

“It was…” Horace thought back to that night, something he'd been trying to avoid these past couple days. The battle with the demons was still fresh in his mind. “I don't know. I couldn't see anything happening, but the demon—whatever you call it—felt it.”

“Creatures from the Outside, as many
zoanii
have discovered to their detriment, are resistant to the four traditional dominions. They can only be destroyed, as far as we know, by the power of Shinar.”

Horace sighed, trying to take this all in. “All right. So I used the fifth dominion. Is that a problem? Like I said, I've been practicing the techniques you taught me.”

“You aren't understanding. Let me make this plain. There are no practitioners of Shinar in all of Akeshia. The last
zoanii
rumored to control the void died more than two centuries ago. To say it is a rare talent would be a gross understatement.”

A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the garden trees. Horace looked down at his chest, remembering the invisible power that had erupted from him. He recalled the pain and the ecstasy of it, the feeling of unbridled freedom.

“This also explains your affinity with the chaos storms,” Mulcibar said. “And perhaps your lack of immaculata as well. We have precious little information about the fifth dominion. There's no record of the techniques required to control it or the risks involved.”

That last part caught Horace's attention. “Risks?”

“Shinar is more than an element of the world.” Mulcibar touched his chest and then his head. “When we
zoanii
meditate to hone our precision with the power, it is the void we seek to comprehend. All of us fall short, yet it is the search for that perfect nothingness that compels us to master our
zoana
. But you apply the Shinar as easily as I am breathing this air.”

“I wouldn't say it's been easy,” Horace muttered.

“Horace, I have been contemplating the void every day since I was seven years old. And you already know it more fully and more deeply than I ever will. It staggers me to imagine what you will discover in the time to come, the wonders you will weave. If you survive.”

“There you go again with the risks and my survival. What's the danger? Am I going to explode or something?”

The nobleman uncovered his bundle and rolled out a square rug on the pavestones. It was about four feet on each side and stitched with an intricate design of geometric shapes inside and around a wide golden circle. The interior
designs included a series of concentric squares around another circle in black, which was divided into four quadrants surrounding an innermost circle of white. The rug's pattern was beautiful, but it was so elaborate that Horace found it difficult to focus on any single design.

“This is a
ganzir
mat,” Mulcibar said. “There are many variations. In fact, each family has its own unique version. This is the
ganzir
of my house.”

“It's very nice.”

“Please, sit down.”

As they both got comfortable on the ground, the nobleman said, “Your lack of control stems from an absence of inner harmony. The
ganzir
is used to focus the mind, much like the hand positions I taught you. These designs impress upon the mind that everything is one. As above, so below.”

Mulcibar indicated the center circle. “Here you see the wheel of the arts, with the four dominions surrounding the circle of the void. He who controls the emptiness also masters the other four dominions in conjunction.”

Horace leaned over the mat for a closer look. There was a tiny design inside the innermost circle. It resembled a man sitting cross-legged, stitched in platinum thread. “So what do I do with it?”

“The key to your power is balance and harmony. Gaze upon the patterns and allow them to merge with your thoughts. The goal is to reach a state of heightened consciousness wherein you observe the entire universe at once.”

Horace considered the nobleman's words. It was preposterous to think that looking at a carpet would help him control his powers, but he was willing to try for the old man's sake. Horace stared at the jumble of shapes and colors, letting his eyes roam across it without focusing on anything specific. Yet, as the minutes passed by, he found his gaze drawn again and again to the tiny figure sitting in the center circle. There was something odd about the figure, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

“Now try to access your
zoana
,” Mulcibar said. “Allow it to flow naturally out of you.”

Horace was surprised to find the magic already coursing through him at a low level. He tried to follow Mulcibar's instructions and let it out, but the power evaded his mental grasp. It was like trying to grab a greased eel, and
every time he reached for it, a jolt of pain ran through his chest. After about a dozen attempts, he gave up with a grunt. “I can't. It won't come.”

“Try again.”

“I did, all right!” Horace stood up and dusted the seat of his robe. “Maybe your carpet doesn't work for me. I'm a savage, after all.”

Mulcibar used his stick to lever himself to his feet, looking for that instant like an old, broken man. “Perhaps you are right.”

Horace reached out to help him, but the nobleman waved him away. “I'm sorry,” Horace said. “That was churlish of me. Thank you for everything.”

“No need to apologize. I hated my teachers in the art. Black-hearted bastards, every one of them. Of course, I was not the most attentive pupil. I lost count of how many sticks they broke across my back.”

“Do you think that would help me learn? I'm sure I could find some switches around here somewhere.”

They were both laughing when a soft voice called from the parlor door. Horace turned to see a servant girl waiting. He struggled to remember her name. “Dharma, right? What do you need?”

“A messenger came to the door, sire. He left a package.”

The girl moved aside, and one of Horace's guards carried a long box about the size of a map case past her. The man held it gingerly, as if afraid to break its contents. Horace bid him to set it on a bench.

After the guard left, Horace started to reach for the box, but Mulcibar stopped him with a word. “Wait. Please, allow me to inspect it first.”

“You don't need to do that,” Horace said. “I can get it.”

“What if the box has been enspelled? Can you spot a
rek-plag
curse without touching the outer surface? Do you know the thirteen anti-bindings that can be used to corrode a sorcerer's connection to the
zoana
and cause his own power to rebound against him? Do you know what the toxin from a
tsi-tsi
adder smells like?”

The case looked innocent enough, made of dark wood with a rich varnish and brass fittings. Yet Horace stayed where he was. “Ah, why don't you look it over first?”

“An excellent idea, my lord.”

Mulcibar leaned over the case without touching it, mumbling something under his breath. An itch prickled the back of Horace's neck. After a few minutes, Mulcibar stepped back. “I do not find any tampering or enchantment on the package.”

Horace reached out. The lid opened smoothly. Inside, a knife lay on a bed of white silk. The weapon was exquisite, with an ivory hilt inlaid with silver, but the blade was smeared with a reddish-brown substance. Horace peered closer but did not touch it. “Is that…?”

“Blood,” Mulcibar said. “Yes. It has started earlier than I imagined.”

“What's started?”

“A knife dipped in blood is a traditional challenge between rivals.”

“A challenge to what? A duel?”

Mulcibar stepped past Horace and pulled a slip of blood-encrusted papyrus from beneath the knife's blade. He unrolled it and started to read, “I, Varazzar, Lord of Perosus and Assam, do challenge thee, Horace of Tines, the Queen's Protector, to fight me at the setting of the Holy Sun on the Third Day of Hekkar before the Gods and Our City.”

Horace peered at the message. The bottom was bordered by a long strip of printed wedge-shaped characters that formed the lord's signature. Alyra had shown him how they were formed with clay cylinders dipped in ink and rolled across parchment. Each was unique to an individual. “It sounds serious.”

“A duel between
zoanii
is to the death.”

Mulcibar held out the sheet of papyrus, but Horace kept his hands by his sides. “What if I refuse?”

“It will weaken your standing in court. Also, your name will be mocked in public.”

“Fine. I've dealt with worse. I refuse.” He took the piece of papyrus and tore it in half, and then in half again before dropping them back in the box. “Let them talk.”