Storm and Steel Read online

  Lord Ubar had been assigned by the queen to take over his magical tutelage. The queen had decided to retain Ubar in her court, despite his father's treachery. Or perhaps because of it—Horace still did not understand the intricacies of Akeshian politics. In any case, the young lord was smart and capable, in addition to being good company.

  Ubar peeled off his robe as he sat down on a tall stool at the edge of the courtyard. A court physician hurried to his side and began binding the several long gashes that covered the young lord's limbs and body. Horace felt a twinge of guilt at the sight. “I'm sorry you have to suffer for my training.”

  “My teachers used to say we suffer the immaculata because the body is too frail to contain the zoana. I don't know if that's true. It was all very metaphysical. Perhaps you are blessed, First Sword.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to repay you.”

  “Just learn well.” Ubar smiled. “And swiftly.”

  “I'm trying, but I'm so…unsure of myself.” He looked over at the hole in the wall. “What was that?”

  Ubar nodded toward the newly made cavity. “A complex weaving. I believe it was Girru and Mordab blended together, but there was something else involved as well.”

  Horace suspected he knew what that extra component was. He could still feel the echo of the void in his chest, wanting to break free. “I can't control it sometimes. It's like the power wants to explode out of me all the time.”

  “The sage Mesanapuda said all zoanii begin as larvae, and it is only through rigorous study and self-examination that we emerge from the cocoon of our own ignorance.”

  “He sounds like the kind of guy who has an answer for everything.”

  Horace massaged the back of his head. Exploring his powers was an adventure in frustration. Sometimes he felt so strong, like he could move mountains, but again and again he failed at the simplest tasks. Exercises for young children such as lighting candles required all his concentration, and he still botched it half the time. Duels were the worst experience of all. Time and time again, Ubar bested him because he could not control that strength. At times, he felt like there was an entire world right before his eyes, but he couldn't see it. No wonder Lord Ubar called the Shinar dominion “the unseen realm.”

  “You are doing better,” Ubar said.

  Horace tried to laugh, but it came out as a grunt. “You're just being kind. You finished me with ease.”

  “Not so. I was forced to use every trick and tool in my arsenal to defeat you.”

  “That's the point. I'm so much stronger than you. I can feel it, sitting here next to you.”

  “This is true. Your aura shines like the sun. It's almost blinding.”

  “Exactly. No offense, but I should be able to win every time.”

  “Battling another zoanii requires more than pure strength. It takes control and experience. Much like swordplay, eh? Any brute can swing a sword, but a studied fencer knows how best to ply his blade, how to see an attack coming before it arrives.” He darted his hands in front of him like two striking snakes. “How to feint in one direction so that his true offense slides past your guard to strike home.”

  Horace sighed, and Ubar slapped him on the back. “It will come to you. You must not be impatient. It was difficult for me, too. As a child, I wanted to know everything right away, always trying to run before I could stand. But to unlock the mysteries of the zoana, you must still your mind and open your qa. Only then will the path be revealed to you.”

  Horace was tempted to make a terse remark about wisdom being doled out in ambiguous nuggets, but Ubar was only trying to help. It wasn't his fault that no one alive knew how to control the Shinar dominion. In that endeavor, he was well and truly alone.

  “Let's go find a cool drink.”

  They exited the courtyard through an arbor of vines with beautiful orange and pink blossoms that led into the villa's enormous gardens, surrounding them in a riot of colors and scents. Stone pathways wound among beds of well-pruned topiaries and burbling fountains. Birds twittered from hiding places within the foliage, and statues in alabaster, marble, and bronze decorated niches carved from the hedges.

  Horace wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. Lord Ubar smiled at the gesture. “I find it difficult to believe you are not cold.”

  “What? This?” Horace looked up at the clear blue sky. “This feels like a fine spring day back in Arnos. You don't know anything about real cold. Snow on the ground, all the streams and lakes frozen solid.”

  “It sounds dreadful.”

  “No. The change of the seasons is quite magical. You appreciate the warmer months, for sure, but there's something beautiful about a blanket of fresh snow covering everything, like the world has been reborn in virgin white.”

  “You miss it.”

  “I suppose, sometimes. But it's not as simple as being homesick. After my wife and son died, no place truly felt like home. I was happier at sea, to tell you the truth. Then, when I washed ashore here, it was like a new beginning. A fresh start.”

  On the other side of the garden was a gate leading back into the villa proper. Sunlight gleamed off its high walls and narrow minarets, built of white and red stone.

  Ubar paused at the gate. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it.

  “Is something wrong?” Horace asked.

  “I was not sure how to broach this subject with you, Inganaz. Forgive me. I have news that you might find disturbing.”

  “All right. Just spit it out.”

  “It concerns the town of Omikur.”

  An uneasy feeling gripped Horace's stomach. He hadn't heard much of anything about the town since the queen took him on a tour to see the siege firsthand. The memory of the massive storm that had ravaged the crusaders’ defenses still haunted him.

  “I have heard the royal legions conducted a new assault just days ago.”

  “Did the town fall?”

  “Not yet, Inganaz. But it seems to be only a matter of time.”

  Horace felt the sudden urge to sit down. If Ubar's account was true, then hundreds—perhaps thousands—of soldiers were going to die. The Great Crusade was over, at least for the time being. What does that mean for me? Should I be angry? Should I want revenge for men I've never met and didn't know? What does it mean if I don't? They were soldiers. They knew the risks when they signed up. But what soldier could understand the risk of Akeshian sorcery?

  As the moments piled up, Horace realized he wasn't angry. The feelings stirring inside him were a mélange of sorrow and disgust. Those lives were being wasted. Fathers, brothers, sons—all dying because their rulers could not find a peaceful way to resolve their disputes.

  “Kanadu,” he said. Thank you. “I'm glad you told me. It is…an unfortunate affair.”

  Horace reached for the handle, but the gate into the villa opened before him, and a man carrying a thick leather valise walked through. Mezim was his new secretary. Nearly a head shorter than Horace, with dark bronze skin, Mezim wore a long skirt of white linen with a straight red border, as befitted a member of the khalata caste of freed slaves.

  After he was named First Sword, Horace soon realized how much responsibility the post entailed. He'd made inquiries and been furnished with someone to help him navigate his duties. Mezim understood the Akeshian system of government backward and forward. Every day Horace said a prayer of thanks for him.

  The secretary bowed when he saw them. “Lord Horace, pardon my interruption. I have been searching for you.”

  Ubar nodded to Horace. “I will see you later, Inganaz.”

  “Tomorrow?” Horace asked. “At the third bell?”

  “Very good.”

  They clasped forearms, and then Lord Ubar went inside.

  Mezim handed Horace a bundle of flattened scrolls. “I have some dispatches from the city. As well as a petition from the royal armory requesting that your lordship approve the purchase of five tons of—”

 
; Horace hadn't been listening. “What do you know about Omikur? It's an outpost town—”

  “Sixteen leagues northwest of Erugash on the fringe of the Iron Desert,” Mezim finished for him. “Ai, Belum. I am familiar with the location. I assume you are referring to the recent attack on said town?”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing was mentioned in today's reports. Shall I request a detailed update from Lord Dipatusu?”

  “No, don't bother the High General.”

  “As you wish.”

  Horace entered the villa, and a chill touched him as he entered the huge house. The queen's villa covered a parcel of land the size of a city block with numerous abutting outbuildings.

  “Her Majesty seems well pleased by the recent developments in the war effort,” Mezim said, following behind him.

  Yes. She would be.

  Horace stopped in the middle of a broad corridor, flanked on both sides by caryatids of nude women. He wondered if this could be his opportunity to build a bridge between Akeshia and the West now that the invasion had been blunted. Both sides might be willing to come to the bargaining table, but he needed a lever, something to convince the queen of his good intentions.

  Mezim juggled the documents in his arms until he came up with a particular scroll. “Your inquiry of Omikur reminds me. I have information about that other matter.”

  “Hmmm? Are you talking about Jirom?”

  The first assignment he gave to Mezim when he hired him was to track down Jirom's whereabouts. They'd been able to confirm that Jirom was pressed into the royal military training camp, but the trail went cold after that. No one in the queen's court was able, or willing, to share the information. Horace had been told by various officials that the legions did not keep records for dog soldiers, the derogatory term they used for slaves drafted into the royal army, but he hadn't believed it for a minute. He'd seen firsthand how meticulous the Akeshians were about recording everything, from the most menial things like shopping lists and street repairs. Somewhere Jirom's name was on a list, and he intended to find it.

  Horace didn't like how Mezim had prefaced his remark. “Don't tell me…”

  “I have confirmation that a slave by that name was transferred to Omikur a little more than three months ago.”

  That would have been right before the Tammuris.

  “Forgive me, Belum,” Mezim said. “But I have found nothing after that point. The siege appears to have been a rather messy affair, with many dead and missing on both sides. The commanders of the Third Legion report they have no soldier named Jirom among their surviving forces. I'm afraid I must conclude that this man likely died in battle.”

  “No.” Horace started walking again at a swift clip. “I do not accept that finding, Mezim. Keep digging. I want to know for sure. We will not give up until someone produces a body. Do you understand?”

  “I will redouble my efforts.”

  “Good. What about the Chapter House attack?”

  They'd heard about the killings at the fortress-temple of the Order of the Crimson Flame just a few days ago. Details had been sketchy, so Horace had ordered Mezim to find out what he could.

  “I'm sorry to say the latest reports don't convey much more than before. The soldiers surrounding the House have testified they heard noises coming from inside. Screaming and such. It only lasted a short time, but the commander in charge decided to break down the gates and investigate in any case. They found everyone dead. The injuries are supposedly quite brutal. Decapitations and disembowelments. Yet no signs of who or what killed them.”

  Horace frowned, as the description reminded him of a night some months ago when he and Alyra had been attacked by idimmu—demons—at the royal palace. It was a night he preferred to forget. I'm gathering quite a collection of those. Nights I'd rather not remember. It's almost like a curse hanging around my neck.

  “Come find me if anything new turns up,” Horace said as he turned to a flight of stairs leading downward into the foundation of the villa's main building.

  “One final matter,” Mezim said. “Mistress Alyra has returned.”

  Horace froze on the step. Not long after the events at the Sun Temple, when he'd thought they had agreed to stay together and see where their relationship would lead, she had left. Vanished, with not much more than a cryptic note about having to track down some loose ends. That had been almost two months ago. Two months without a word, not knowing if she was alive or dead or in trouble.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, and started down the stairs.

  Warm, humid air washed over Horace as he descended into a long, brick-lined chamber with a double-vaulted ceiling. One of this villa's most interesting features was the underground baths. At the far end, taking up most of the floor space, was a pool large enough to bathe the entire crew of a twin-masted schooner, all at the same time. Men and women lounged by its edge, eating and drinking while they soaked.

  He went to a row of wooden stalls along the north wall to change out of his clothes and was intercepted by a young slave girl. She was entirely nude except for a silver collar around her neck. The collar and her pale skin, much lighter than most Akeshians, reminded him of the first time he met Alyra at the palace. The parallels to this moment made him uncomfortable, but he allowed the slave to lead him into a stall and stood while she undressed him. Horace tried to think of other things, but all his thoughts inevitably turned to Alyra, which only served to escalate the awkwardness. When he was disrobed, the slave escorted him down to a smaller pool of very hot, foamy water.

  He couldn't hold back a quiet groan of pleasure as he stepped into the bath. The steaming water grasped his calves, washing away the tension from his muscles. The sensations became more intense with every step he descended. He had been looking forward to this all morning.

  The slave girl lathered him in soap and rinsed him. Then she led him to the main pool. Horace didn't look any of the other bathers in the eye as he lowered himself into the water. Not quite as hot as the first pool, the main bath was the perfect temperature to relax.

  The pool's edge was slick under his palms where his burn scars touched the polished stonework. Grief spun through him as he thought of his departed wife and child, but it was not as painful as it had once been. He lounged against the side of the pool with a long sigh.

  Some of the other bathers looked over at him, but they kept to their private clusters. The slave brought him a pewter cup with chilled wine and offered him orange slices from a tray. Horace declined the fruit but sipped from the cup as he tried to unwind, while a multitude of problems jostled inside his brain. Jirom's disappearance, Alyra's absences, the duties of his position, not to mention his problem with controlling his powers. And now the new campaign against the crusaders at Omikur. He'd been hopeful his life would become easier after the Tammuris, but if anything it had gotten more complex. He wanted to run away to someplace quiet and peaceful. I could always go back to sea.

  It was a tempting idea. Life aboard a ship was filled with routines and hard work. No women to distract him, no politics to muddle his head, no sense of impending doom. Just the wind and the water. But he couldn't go back. He'd witnessed too much to be content as a ship's carpenter ever again. As much as it frustrated him with its elusiveness, the zoana was part of him now. It was the salt in his blood, as the sailors were like to say.

  “May I join you?”

  Horace nearly spilled his cup when Alyra came up behind him. For a moment he couldn't say anything, could only stare at her in mute wonder. He'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was, especially unclothed with the water lapping about her hips. Her long blonde hair was down, curling around her shoulders down to the upper slopes of her breasts. Horace blinked and forced his gaze back to her face.

  “I heard you were back,” he said.

  “Yes. I just returned.”

  He wanted to ask where she had been but held his tongue. There was something about the way she regarded him, a wari
ness he'd noticed before she left, that put him at a loss for words, afraid to say the wrong thing. The slave girl brought more wine, and Alyra accepted a cup. Horace allowed his to be refilled while he watched Alyra, trying to read her expression, to garner some hint of how she felt about him.

  “So,” he said after the slave had left them. “Did you accomplish your mission?”

  Horace kicked himself mentally. If anything was sure to drive her away again, it would be prying into her affairs. She'd made that much clear.

  “It's difficult to say,” she replied after a long pause.

  Sweating now, Horace cleared his throat. “Will you be staying long?”

  “I don't know yet.”

  “I'd like…it would be nice if you…I mean…” He took a breath to steady himself. “I'm trying to say I missed you.”

  That brought a smile to her lips. “I missed you, too.”

  Horace breathed easier. Then he remembered they were both naked, sitting just a couple feet apart, and his awkwardness returned in force.

  “How have you been getting along while I was away?” she asked.

  “Well, I haven't received any challenges since…that night. So that's been good.”

  Alyra turned to watch a pair of noble ladies wading nearby. “Do you think they like you better, now that you've saved their queen's life? Or are they just too afraid to confront you directly?”

  “That's tough to say. No one at the palace speaks to me except for the queen and Lord Ubar.”

  “Yes. I've heard that he was recalled to court. An odd development.”

  “I thought so, too. But I'm glad Byleth brought him back. He's a good man. Nothing at all like his father.”