Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (11 page)

Horace lounged in the tub with his eyes closed, enjoying the warm water as it lapped against his chest and leached the aches from his tired muscles.

This is surely heaven. And if it's not, let me die now.

After climbing aboard the mysterious sedan, he had been carried out of the plaza and down a broad avenue where he got a better view of the city. Everything was built in tiers, the buildings and ramps rising like stone hills all around him. There were green spots, too, with gardens growing on rooftops and balconied terraces. Many of the buildings were painted, the most popular shades being ochre red and a pale orange that reminded Horace of a summer sunset. The avenue crossed several bridges under which flowed narrow channels of water. After about a quarter of a mile, the sedan turned into a courtyard surrounded by high walls that blocked out most of the sky. A squad of soldiers in indigo uniforms met Horace as he stepped out and ushered him inside a huge manor house. He had flashbacks of his cell in Lord Isiratu's town, but the soldiers took him upward instead, climbing several flights of steps and one long spiral staircase to a well-appointed room. They left him there.

Exploring this cell hadn't taken him long—the room was a circle. Two windows showed views of the city below. Several larger buildings stood out, many of them topped with broad domes. He'd stood at those windows as the twilight deepened, watching the moon rise to take its place among the stars. Finally, too tired to stand any longer, he collapsed into the bed.

Waking up on the fluffy mattress instead of a hard space of ground had been so luxurious that he didn't rush to get up, even as dawn's rays stretched across the floor. He might have stayed in bed all day but for the clatter of the door being unbarred and the entrance of four serving men. Their collars advertised them as slaves, but they wore clothing of fine linen and supple leather sandals like men of means. Though they did not speak his language, they made their wishes clear, and within an hour Horace had been shaved,
barbered, and set to soak in a copper bathtub. He had no idea what it all meant—the slave coffle, the culling, the sedan chair, and now this treatment. It was all so confusing. He almost wished his captors would just cut off his head and be done with it.

Careful what you wish for. There are worse things than being confined in a nice room with a bed and bath.

The door opened again, but instead of slaves, three soldiers stepped inside. Each man held a sword with a curved blade, like a scimitar but with a more pronounced arc. Their blades looked sharp enough to shave with. Horace sat up, dropping one hand to cover his privates and feeling quite defenseless. A moment later the slaves reentered. They laid out an outfit on the bed as a stooped figure appeared in the doorway.

Lord Mulcibar looked older in the light of day. His skin was jaundiced with a crinkled texture like ancient parchment. A mass of scar tissue like melted candle wax covered the right side of his face. His limp was more pronounced as he entered.

Horace didn't know what to do. The tub, which had seemed like a haven only moments ago, was now his prison. Standing and bowing from his current position wouldn't be wise, and waving seemed too flippant, so he remained in place. Then Lord Mulcibar surprised him by speaking in passable Nimean. “I wanted to formally make your acquaintance.”

Horace shifted, sloshing some water on the floor. “Uh. That's very nice of you, my lord.”

“I am Mulcibar Pharitoun et'Alulu.”

“Horace Delrosa at your service.”

“Have you been made comfortable?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for your hospitality. It's a far cry from running across the desert.”

“I suppose it must be. I would ask your indulgence for Lord Isiratu, but I am of the opinion that the man is a slug.”

That took Horace aback. In Arnos, it wasn't often that one aristocrat was heard criticizing another. Perhaps things were different here.

What am I thinking? Everything is different here.

“So this is your house?” Horace asked.

“Yes. It was originally the royal palace of Erugash, but it was bequeathed to my grandfather.”

“Does that make you royalty?”

“Yes. Although some have said that the bloodline has thinned in recent generations.”

Horace had no idea how to respond to that. Thankfully, Lord Mulcibar filled the silence.

“Please put on this attire. I will send for you within the hour.”

As the nobleman turned to leave, Horace raised a hand to forestall him. The soldiers shifted to place themselves more firmly between him and old man. “Send for me for what, my lord?” Horace asked. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Yes. You have been summoned to the palace. The queen wishes to examine you.”

Horace slumped back in the tub. The cooling bathwater sloshed about him.

The chains clinked as Horace lifted a hand to scratch his nose. Each wrist was encircled by a wide cuff of silvery metal, joined together by a twelve-inch chain of the same material.

Well, at least they're pretty.

He rode in the palanquin, this time sitting across from Lord Mulcibar. The hunched nobleman looked like he was about to be swallowed by the cushioned seat. Before they left his mansion, Lord Mulcibar had apologized while his soldiers placed the manacles on Horace, explaining that it had to be done. The metal was too heavy to be silver, weighing his arms down like lead. He'd asked his captor about the chains as they climbed into the litter.

“They're made from
zoahadin
,” Lord Mulcibar said. “It translates to ‘star metal.’”

When Mulcibar explained that the metal was very rare, coming from stones that fell from the sky, Horace had asked, “Why use it for chains?”

“
Zoahadin
restricts the flow of ethereal energies.”

Horace looked at the shackles. They didn't seem very special, except for their bright gleam. Yet, now that the old man mentioned it, he felt a little different. Rundown, of course, but that was expected after the long march to the city.

No, there's something else. Like a piece of me is missing inside. Odd that I never even knew that part existed until now.

“All rogue magicians are chained thus when they are brought before a tribunal,” Lord Mulcibar said. “Or, in this case, the queen's court.”

Though Horace didn't like being called a “rogue magician,” he accepted that he was completely in the power of his captors.

Besides the chains, he wore a fine suit of dark gray linen, softer than anything he'd ever worn before. The embroidery stitched into the collar of the short jacket and down the sides of the calf-length skirt in a pattern of interconnecting squares looked like real gold thread. In an odd turn, the sandals he'd worn since the fishing village had been replaced with a pair of black leather boots. They were a little small for him but were polished and good-looking. Wearing them almost made him feel normal. Except for the chains and the rolling motion of the sedan chair. He didn't like knowing that underneath him were people being used as beasts of burden.

“So what's she like?”

Lord Mulcibar looked up. He had been gazing into the floor for the last several minutes. “Pardon?”

“The queen. What is she like in person?”

The nobleman cleared his throat. “She is a goddess in the flesh. Without peer. Flawless.”

Horace hadn't expected such a fervent response, but he'd heard that the heathens of this land worshipped many things. Why not their rulers? “Is there a king, too?”

“Queen Byleth inherited the throne from her father and has not yet married. She is betrothed, however.”

“Byleth. That's a pretty name.”

Lord Mulcibar gave a raspy chuckle. “Pray you don't say as much to Her Exalted Highness in court.”

Horace smiled. Despite the shackles, he liked this man, who didn't treat him like an animal. But this summons had him worried. He'd never been in the presence of royalty before, although his father had once had the honor of presenting a new ship-of-the-line to King Fervold. Horace had been only four years old at the time, but he still remembered the blustery autumn day and how his mother had cried. Tears of pride, she'd said afterward.

An idea occurred to Horace. “Can you teach me to say hello in your tongue?”

“You would say
sobhe'etu
, which means ‘the evening is well.’”

Horace whispered the phrase to himself until he had it memorized. He was hoping that being able to speak a little of their language would make these people see him in a more favorable light. And their tongue was, he had to admit, quite interesting, nothing at all like any of the languages of the western realms.

The sedan stopped, and a sharp knock rapped against the door. Lord Mulcibar got up, his face contorting into a mask of pain as he stood. The door was opened by a young footman in purple livery. Mulcibar went to exit but paused before leaving the car. “One piece of advice. Be honest. Many have tried to dissemble with Her Majesty, and they all paid for it.”

Horace mulled those words as he followed the nobleman out. A dozen guardsmen surrounded them as they exited. The soldiers appeared ill at ease, as if expecting trouble, but Horace couldn't imagine what danger he might pose while shackled. He followed Lord Mulcibar's slow footsteps across the courtyard of red bricks, which was bounded by walls at least thirty feet high. A wide set of stairs at the end of the courtyard rose to the base of the breathtaking pyramid he had seen from outside the city. Horace didn't know whether it was a palace or a temple, as it had the features of both, consisting of several immense square tiers stacked on top of each other, narrowing in size as they rose toward the sky. Made entirely of polished white stone, the edifice gleamed like the blade of a knife under the hot sun. The roof of the top tier was sheathed in gold.

“It's unbelievable,” he said, but neither Lord Mulcibar nor the soldiers escorting them acted as if they'd heard.

They ascended the outer stairs and walked along the flat top of the lowest tier, eventually arriving at a set of tall doors. They were bronze, dark with age, their coffered panels cast with images of animals and people in minute detail. Some of the faces were only as big as his thumbnails, but they were rendered with such skill that Horace could make out their expressions perfectly. Most of the figures were depicted venerating larger, more beautiful people, though whether these giants were meant to be gods or rulers Horace could not say. Considering what Lord Mulcibar had told him about the queen, he supposed they could be both. Huge columns flanked the doors; the stone pillars were painted deep blue like the ocean.

More soldiers opened the door and stood at strict attention while the entourage filed inside. There was no sign of the yellow tabards Horace had seen at the city gates, and he wondered if the colors designated different branches of soldiery.

The chamber beyond was monumental on a scale Horace had never seen before. The ceiling was so high it felt like stepping into another open-air courtyard. He half-expected to see clouds drifting above him. More pillars, these painted light blue, supported the titanic span. The center of the chamber was dominated by a garden of vibrant flowers and small trees. Intoxicating perfumes wafted in the air. Huge pictures were carved into the walls in bas-relief, portraying enormous people—mostly men—with long, curly beards and open wings. Were they supposed to be angels? If so, they bore little resemblance to the celestial beings Horace had seen in the cathedrals and churches of his homeland. These figures were more imperious in their stance, not cherubic in the least. One panel showed a line of chariots rolling over an army of smaller figures. Another showed scenes of daily life—farmers planting and harvesting, ranchers herding cattle, miners digging.

Horace tried to take it all in as the soldiers and Lord Mulcibar led him through the chamber. There were some people milling around in small clusters, men mainly. They turned to watch as he was paraded past. Some of their expressions were not kind.

That's right. Gawk at the evil foreigner.

They passed through a wide corridor. Full-body portraits were painted
on the walls and outlined in vibrant mosaics. By their golden regalia, he took them for kings and queens. Some of the paintings looked quite old. The light from the grand chamber was lost behind them and was replaced by burning flambeaux set in bronze cressets on the walls. He also spotted small holes, like narrow windows, near the ceiling. He wasn't sure what they were for—arrow loops for hidden archers?—until he noticed that the smoke from the torches was sucked out through the holes in some kind of ventilation system. It took him by surprise. He'd come to believe, through tales told to him by others and what he'd read in public bills, that the Akeshians were a backward people whose recent conquests were the result of mindless ferocity and a lack of respect for human life. Yet some of the things he'd seen already in his short time here were quite innovative.