He held tight to Sari's hand as the people closed in around them. They tried to run, but the crowd was too thick. Everywhere Horace turned, townsfolk stood with their backs to him. He could hear Josef talking behind him, but his son's words were nonsense. Baby-talk, even though Josef was seven…

No, he just turned three years old last…last….

He tried to pull Sari closer, but something was holding her back. He was afraid to turn around, afraid of what he might see. Her hand was hot in his grip, blistering his palm. She was speaking to him, too, but her words were carried away on the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed.

Horace bolted upright. His heart thumped in his chest like it wanted to break free. He saw it again so vividly, that last day in Tines. He held onto that moment, savoring the pain because it was better than feeling nothing, until the images faded. A sigh rattled in his chest as he opened his eyes.

The cell had no lamp and no window, but enough light filtered under the door for him to make out its narrow confines. The floor was cold stone beneath him. There was no bed to lie on, no benches or chairs. Nothing except a noisome hole in the corner. The only way in or out was through the door, and that was locked and barred from the outside.

They had left him in fetters. The metal gleamed bright in the dark cell. Horace had tried pounding the chains against the floor, tried scraping them against the walls, but he couldn't so much as scratch them.

It was difficult to say how long he'd been confined here. He guessed four or five days, long enough for the cold of the floor and walls to seep into his bones. He'd tried some simple calisthenics on the first day to keep his blood moving, but not much since then. He didn't see the point. So he spent more and more time thinking about the past, reliving the best moments of his life. Childhood recollections like holidays and namedays, the day his father had been recognized with a formal commendation signed by the king, the day his first ship was launched, his wedding day, Josef's birth. Tears gathered in his eyes as those powerful remembrances took hold of him. But eventually the fear crept back into his mind. What were they going to do to him?

The door creaked, and Horace scuttled closer. A bottom panel swung open, and bright light streamed through, burning his eyes. Blinking through the protection of his fingers, he saw a copper plate shoved through the opening, followed by a small pot.

“Hey!” Horace's voice echoed off the walls. “When are you—?”

The panel slammed shut before he could finish his question.

He sat back as the footsteps tromped away from his door. He was alone again. He leaned down to the plate and found a cold glob of pasty substance that smelled like curdled porridge. The water in the pot had a metallic taste, but he drained it anyway. As soon as he set down the vessel, he regretted drinking it all. He'd be thirsty again soon, and no amount of beating on the door would get him more. Every time they served him, Horace tried to talk to his jailors, but they never responded.

Sometimes he heard noises through the walls, like people talking, too low to make out the words. Other times he thought he heard laughing. At some point he started talking to himself to pass the time, playing out conversations he'd had in the past. He imagined there were two Horaces. One was optimistic he would eventually be freed and returned to Arnos, but the other constantly berated him for such romantic gibberish. He would never see his home again. He was going to die in this cell. The two sides bickered in his head, and sometimes he would stop, frozen in terror, as he realized he was muttering both sides of the argument out loud.

After finishing the mush, he licked the water pot to be sure he hadn't missed a drop. Then he stretched out on the floor with his hands folded across his stomach. The chains clinked as they settled around his middle. He slowed his breathing and focused on staying perfectly still, imagining that if he didn't move a muscle maybe he would die in this pose. He wondered what the jailors would say.

Such a dignified corpse. Why can't the other prisoners die so quietly as this one?

His eyes grew heavy as he imagined himself gliding through the sky on a cushion of clouds. Minute by minute, the tension drained from his body. This was freedom. Whether he lived or died, his captors couldn't claim his spirit. An odd sensation formed behind his breastbone, a feeling of lightness as if he were actually about to float off the floor. A kernel of cool heat penetrated his chest, flaring up briefly each time he took a breath. Horace focused on the tiny seed of sensation. Was this the zoana that Gaz and Jirom had been telling him about?

The knot of icy warmth vanished as the door opened and a party of soldiers in full armor entered his cell. Horace stood up, blinking against the light of several torches. Without a word, they escorted him out into the corridor where waited a short man with deep wrinkles on his face and a gray beard down to his chest. He wore pale-green robes and a square-brimmed hat. With a sniff, the robed man headed off down the passage, and the soldiers escorted Horace after him.

Horace didn't remember much from when he was first brought down to these dungeons under the palace, but he paid better attention this time. The hallways were arched and dressed in smooth stone. They passed through three doors, including a big iron door at the end, before climbing a long flight of stairs. Horace was winded by the time they reached the top, but he felt good. Calm, like nothing could disturb him. He could face anything.

Even death?

A note of doubt skittered across the surface of his mind as they passed through a series of halls and lavish chambers. Horace walked as tall as he was able, though his legs shook a little. His captors took him up another set of staircases. Arched windows let in light and gave Horace a spectacular view of the city as they rose higher and higher.

When they reached the top Horace guessed they had to be a dozen floors or more above the ground. He was taken through more doors, all made from fine-grained wood with bright brass hinges and pulls. Artwork in metal and fired clay adorned the walls of the hallways. The floor was flagged in cardinal-red stone, the walls and ceiling in sand-colored blocks with flecks of black and gold. Despite the opulent surroundings, or perhaps because of them, Horace began to sweat. Where were they taking him? He looked around every turn expecting to be startled by something horrible. By the time they stopped at a door at the end of a hall, his hands were shaking. He tried to recapture that feeling of calm, to accept whatever happened, but his nerves refused to obey.

The robed man opened the door and went inside. Horace waited with the silent soldiers. The doorway led to some kind of antechamber tiled in cream-colored stone. One soldier produced a key and unlocked Horace's shackles. He almost wept with relief as the metal cuffs came off. His wrists were red and raw. While he massaged them, the soldiers took position on either side of the doorway, but none of them moved. With a deep breath, Horace entered.

The door closed behind him. The robed man disappeared through another archway, leaving Horace in the antechamber. The ceiling was domed and painted to resemble the sky. People in bright garb sat on clouds, laughing and cavorting while tiny children played pipes and other instruments. In the very center was the sun in yellow, its shining rays emblazoned with gold leaf. It was quite striking.

A throat cleared.

Horace almost jumped when he saw the woman, standing in the archway the robed man had taken. She was…

Better-looking than the painting.

The thought popped into his head before he could squash it. But she was good-looking. Her face, with its perfect cheekbones, could have graced a masterpiece. She looked younger than him by a few years, with startling blue eyes and long, golden-blonde hair that tumbled past her shoulders. Her tunic matched her eyes, short-skirted and belted with a white cord, but his gaze was drawn to the gold collar around her neck. It was slender, almost like a choker necklace, but there was no denying that it was a slave's collar.

“Please,” she said. “Come in.”

“You speak Arnossi?” It made sense. She looked Arnossi.

He followed her into the next chamber, which was circular and set up like a sitting room with three large, cushioned divans and a pair of chairs. Everything looked like it was of the finest quality, from the furniture to the pastel frescoes painted on the curved walls. Three other doorways radiated out from the room, two of them closed. A nice breeze entered the room through a tall, open window.

The robed man spoke, and the young woman translated. “Sire, Chancellor Unagon says these rooms have been provided to you by the queen. You are instructed to remain here until Her Majesty calls for you, but you are her guest. Anything you require, you need only ask.”

“All right,” Horace replied. “Tell him I'm honored and I will call on him personally if I need anything. And thank him for me.”

He listened closely as the young woman interpreted his words. Chancellor Unagon nodded and walked out to the swish of his robes, but the young woman remained behind. Horace looked to her, not sure what he was supposed to do.

“I am Alyra,” she said. “I'll be your servant while you stay in the palace.”

“I don't want a…” He gestured to her collar.

“I have been commanded to serve you. Please. I have drawn a bath. You must want to refresh yourself.”

Horace looked down at himself. He was filthy, and the sumptuousness of the room only made him feel more out of place. He followed her through the open doorway into the largest bath chamber he had ever seen. It was almost as big as the townhouse he and Sari had rented right after they were married. A huge copper tub stood in the center of the floor, filled with steaming, soapy water. A mosaic of four nymphs cavorting in a stream decorated the far wall.

Instead of leaving, the young woman untied the cord around her waist and set it on a wooden bench beside the tub. Sudden warmth suffused Horace's face as she stripped out of her tunic. He held his breath without intending to, unable to take his gaze off her, even as she turned back to face him.

“Shall I help you remove your clothes?” she asked.

Exhaling slowly, Horace shook his head and undressed himself. When he got down to his small clothes, he whisked them off and stepped into the tub. Only after he was submerged in the hot water did he chide himself. Why should he be embarrassed? She was a servant of the palace, certainly accustomed to seeing people without their clothes. But then she leaned over the tub holding a sponge, and the nearness of her nudity was impossible to ignore. The women of his homeland did not parade around stark-naked. At least, not outside houses of ill repute.

To take his mind off the situation, Horace asked her, “Where did you learn to speak Arnossi so well? Your accent is almost nonexistent.”

“My parents were Arnossi, sire.”

He turned around in the water, sending waves across the tub. “They were? Then how did you become a…?”

“A slave? We lived at the colony of Marico on the island of Thym when the Akeshians attacked. My father died in the fighting, but my mother and I were taken as slaves.”

“I'm sorry. That's horrible. How old were you?”

“Ten, sire.”

He leaned back against the side of the tub. “May I ask, what became of your mother?”

“I don't know. We were separated a couple years after our capture and sold to different owners. I haven't seen her since.”

The knot in his chest returned as he imagined how a child might feel to be enslaved by the people who had killed her father, and then to be separated from the only other connection to her old life. He could understand what that would be like. “I'm…that's…I'm sorry.”

The talk of slaves reminded Horace of Jirom. “Alyra, I have a friend. We came to the city in the same caravan, but he was taken somewhere else. Sold, presumably. Is there any way I can find him?”

He described Jirom and what had happened at the slave market.

“I'm not sure,” she said. “But my guess is that he was shipped out to the mines. Or maybe sent to the army training camp north of the city.”

“Can you try to find out, please?”

“I'm afraid there isn't much I can do, sire. Please forgive me.”

Finished with his arms and chest, Alyra poured a fragrant white liquid into his hair and rubbed it in, then rinsed him with fresh water from a copper pail. Afterward he felt better. His eyes drifted shut for a moment, but they snapped open as something warm and slimy attached to his face. Horace bolted upright, reaching for his chin. His fingers came away covered in a warm, brown sludge. “What are you doing to me?”

Alyra stood beside the tub, holding a cup. Inside was more of the odd-looking substance. “Shaving you, sire. Please sit back.”

Horace put his fingers to his nose. The stuff had a minty smell, which was rather pleasant, actually. He returned to his former position and leaned back, allowing her to finish applying the salve. “What is it?”

“An extract of honeymint and the bark of the sarbatu tree. It will nourish your skin and make the shaving easier.”

It occurred to Horace, as she stood over him with a steel razor, that his life was literally in her hands. He held still as the blade ran across his neck, but breathed easier after a few strokes. She had a sure hand, and within a short time he was relaxed enough to enjoy the sensation of being shaved, surrendering to the hot water and the bubbles and the slick whisk of the razor across his skin.

“May I ask you something?” she asked.

Horace let his eyes droop half-closed. “Sure.”

“I've heard rumors among the palace servants. They say a storm struck your entourage on its way across the desert. They also say that you saved everyone. Is that true?”

He recalled the sensations he'd experienced in the cell, the feeling of lightness and the seed of hot and cold in his chest, and suddenly he felt empty. “I suppose it is.”

He told her what he remembered of the storm, but just like when he'd told the queen, he didn't have any way to explain his actions or the results. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. It was unbelievable.”

“It's amazing,” she said.

“I don't know. Lord Isiratu didn't seem pleased.”

“You shamed him, sire.” Alyra wiped his face with a wet towel. “You succeeded where he and Lord Ubar had failed. According to the law, you had the right to take his life, had you so wished.”

“That's crazy. I didn't even know what I was doing.”

“All the more impressive, my lord.”

Horace reached up to find his chin smooth and tingling. “Do all zoanii have this power of sorcery?”

“Yes, sire. It is what makes them zoanii.”

“And they are the ruling class of this land.”

“That's right.”

“Are all children of the zoanii also sorcerers?”

“Often that is the case, especially with the older bloodlines. Or so I've been told. Yet sometimes there are children born without the zoana, which is why producing a true-born heir is so important. Such is the case of Lord Isiratu. Lord Ubar is his sixth son, by a third wife, but the first among his children to possess the power. Very sad.”

“What happens to the children without it?”

“It is not spoken about,” she said, “but some are killed by their families to rid them of the shame. Many are sent to the temples to become priests and priestesses.”

Horace imagined all those unwanted children, consigned to lives of prayer. “I've seen some of these Akeshian priests. Why do some wear yellow robes and others red?”

“The clergy of the pantheon wear many different-color robes, sire. Among the Sun Cult, the ministers wear gold, while the members of the Order wear red.”

“The order?”

“The Order of the Crimson Flame. They are responsible for enforcing the temple's edicts.”

“Like a private army?”

“Somewhat, sire. The Order's members are chosen at a very young age and train for many years.”

That sounded like a secret society. Arnos had them, too, although they were mainly political movements. “How are they chosen?”

“They all possess zoana.”

She said it as a matter of simple fact, but a chill ran down Horace's back. More sorcery. It seemed like it was everywhere in this forsaken country. “Wait. So they are sorcerers, but not zoanii?”

“Yes, sire. Once accepted into the Order, they disavow all former ties, including the bonds of family and rank, to serve the Sun Temple.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“There are many reasons, sire. Some members of the Order were orphans raised by the temple. Others committed an offense against their family or liege. Please, excuse me.”

Alyra left the chamber, and Horace took the opportunity to hop out of the tub. His legs wobbled a little as he stepped onto the floor. He started to reach for his clothes and then realized they were gone.

She probably took them to burn, and I can't blame her.

Dripping wet, Horace looked around for something to put on. He opened a cabinet but found only more sponges and a row of small bottles. He was just closing the door when Alyra reappeared. Horace covered his groin with his hands as he stood there, dripping water on the tile floor. She offered him a robe. As soon as the fabric touched his skin, Horace looked down in wonder. He had never worn silk before. The robe was a rich burgundy color with a black border and wide cuffs at the wrists. Alyra tied the sash around his waist in an intricate knot that resembled a flower blossom. While he was admiring the garment, she held out a swath of material that looked like a tiny hammock of black silk. It took Horace a moment to realize it was some form of undergarment. His face heating up again, he took it from her and bent away as he slipped it on. The garment felt strange, riding up between his legs and into the crack of his behind. As he moved his hips from side to side, trying to get the thing to sit right without adjusting himself in front of her, Alyra assisted him in putting on a pair of sandals. He felt a little odd as she knelt to help him, but the sandals fit so well, the soft leather molding to his feet like they had been made specifically for him, that he forgot his qualms.

“Does everyone dress this way here?” he asked.

She stood up and began to put on her clothes. “This is the customary garb for a zoanii man of the do'jun, the tenth rank, sire. You must look presentable for your private audience with the queen.”

Horace was about to tell her that he wasn't zoanii, that this was all a big mistake, but her mention of a private audience stole his attention. “I'm going to see the queen again?”

“Yes. Right now, in fact.”

A loud knock echoed from the front room.

“Excuse me,” Alyra said, and she hurried away to answer it.

He followed, dreading the upcoming interview. The queen's presence had been powerful and alluring when he saw her in the great chamber. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of meeting her in a private setting. He couldn't help wondering if this was all just a hoax, some cruel torture designed by his captors to lull him into complacency before they tossed him back into a cell.

Alyra opened the door, and two soldiers in scale armor entered. They both stopped in the atrium and placed a fist over their hearts.

“They are here to escort you, sire,” Alyra said.

Horace tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. “All right. I suppose this is it.”

“May the blessing of Sippa be upon you,” she said, bowing to him.

Not sure how to respond, Horace nodded as he left the suite. He impressed himself by not stumbling, even though his legs were still shaky and his stomach flipped somersaults. More soldiers waited in the hallway outside the apartment. They fell in around him.

As Horace followed them through the confusing corridors of the palace, he considered his options. He supposedly possessed some great power. What if he lashed out with it? Would it be enough to subdue these men and let him escape? But then he considered that he was alone, a stranger in a strange city with many leagues between him and the shore. Even if he made it back to the beach, what then? It wasn't like he could spread his arms and fly home. No, he was well and truly trapped. His best option was to keep his head on straight and try to come up with a reasonable plan. So he watched everything, trying to memorize the route they took, the chambers they passed.

The soldiers led him up a flight of pristine white marble steps to a door made of a lustrous red wood. Horace took a deep breath as they pulled it open and stood aside. If he thought the apartment he was staying in was lavish, he had no words for what he saw before him. The atrium at the front of the suite was large enough to hold a feast, its floor inlaid with a beautiful mosaic of cut glass in swirling patterns of sky-blue, turquoise, and white. The walls were covered in golden plaster upon which rows of colorful figures had been painted. Horace felt like he was walking through an art gallery, the lifelike eyes following his every step. On the left was a battle scene involving two armies of easterners. The details were exquisite down to the links of mail in their armor. The painting on the right was a landscape showing a great city on the banks of a green river. He knew it at once for this city, Erugash, though in the picture the mighty palace was only half-built with tiny scaffolds clinging to its sloped sides.

Two soldiers—freakishly big men in mail armor—stood at attention flanking the door on the far side of the chamber. Large, curved swords rested against their shoulders.

Horace took a few steps into the chamber and stopped, clasping his hands before him. Then a young woman walked out between the soldiers. She couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve and wore a sheer tunic, unbelted so it billowed around her slim figure. Horace smiled at her until he noticed the gold collar around her neck. He had to remind himself this was a heathen land, and he was the outsider.

The girl motioned for him to follow, so he did, passing between the huge guards and into an even larger chamber. The interior room had a high ceiling, and the far wall was open to the sky. The side walls were limned with colorful frescoes that reminded Horace of the paintings in the cathedral of St. Ephrates. The men in the pictures wore long, square-cut beards and bright garb. They had such haughty expressions that he thought they might be kings, and the women queens, perhaps. Then he noticed the clouds under their feet and the stars twinkling around them.

Not kings. Gods.

He studied the paintings as the girl left him alone. He didn't hear anyone else enter until a contralto voice made him turn quickly. “Welcome, Horace of Arnos.”

The queen stood behind him. Her hair was down, the inky-black tresses cascading almost down to her waist. A dress of white silk clung to her curves, and a jade amulet the size of a chicken egg hung around her neck. Two servant girls, both wearing delicate gold collars, entered behind the queen. Smiling, they sat on a cushioned divan in a corner of the room and took up a game that involved rolling clay dice and moving wooden pegs across a marble tile.

Horace made an awkward bow to the queen, not sure if he was supposed to kneel or kiss anything. “No chains this time, Your Excellence?”

“I don't think we'll need them, do you?” Queen Byleth smiled as she sauntered toward him, as elegant as a leopardess prowling through the jungle.

“Ah, no, Your Excellence. I, er…”

Stop staring at her, idiot!

Horace cleared his throat. “If I may say, you speak flawless Arnossi.”

“I had very good tutors.” She stopped before him, one hand placed on her hip. “As a girl, I wished that I would someday visit the countries of the West.”

“That would be…something.” He grasped for something witty to say and failed. Instead, he tried to steer the conversation toward the thing nearest his heart: going home. “Perhaps that day will come when our nations can meet in friendship. I would like that very much.”

“Would you?” The queen looked to the painting again. “I see you were admiring the murals. Are you a lover of art?”

“Ah, not exactly. I mean, it's very beautiful.”

“It's called Nura'in Anunnaka. The Lights of Heaven. At the top is the god Endu, lord of the sky, with Enkath the Earth-lord and Temmu the Water-lady at his sides. They are the elder gods of Akeshia.”

“And the smaller people around them?” he asked.

“They are the children of the elder gods. That one with the golden eyes is Amur, the lord of the sun. His twin sister there is Sippa, the moon.”

As the queen named each of the divinities and the part of the natural world they embodied, Horace couldn't believe he was actually talking to royalty. Her beauty was bewitching, making it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. “Do you know what I like most about this mural, Master Horace?” she asked.

“No.” He added a hasty, “Your Excellence.”

“The violence.”

Horace looked at the painting again. It was certainly a beautiful masterpiece, but he didn't see any hint of violence. “I don't understand.”

The queen pointed to the god of storms. “See Harutuk and the way he is turned away from Kishar, his earth-bound bride? Why does he hold his hand behind his back so? What is he hiding from her? In the legends, Harutuk poisons his wife before regretting it and questing to the depths of the underworld to find her. So is he hiding more poison, ready to repeat his crime? Or is that the antidote, held ready in case she should try to get even with him?”

She indicated a small woman sitting in the corner by herself. “And here is Erimu, the mother of the gods.”

Horace leaned over to get a better look at the small figure and by doing so placed himself closer to the queen. The scent of her perfume filled his head, sweet like a blend of flower blossoms and lemon. “If she's their mother, why is she alone in the corner?”

“See the cut across her neck and the chains around her ankles? She was killed by her own children and entombed under the earth. But she has a secret. Look in her sleeve.”

Horace saw what she meant. A thin, serpentine tail curled around the goddess's wrist and disappeared into her clothing. Near the neckline, a reptilian head emerged, sprouting sharp fangs. Another head peeked from under the hem of her gown.

“She has other children as well,” the queen said. “And they wait for the day when they can avenge their mother.”

Horace stepped back from the mural. He never would have seen those details if they hadn't been pointed out. The queen regarded him. “Akeshia's politics are not unlike her myths. Polite and cultured on the surface, but teeming with danger underneath.”

He had no idea why she was telling him this, but he nodded. “I will keep that in mind, Your Excellence.”

“That is a curious title,” she said. “Is that how the royalty of your homeland are addressed?”

“I apologize, Your…well, I don't think so. We usually refer to our king as ‘Majesty’ or ‘Highness,’ but I was unsure how it was done here, so I just said what came to mind. I'm very sorry if I offended.”

“Not at all. I actually enjoy it. Please, continue to use it.”

Horace bowed his head. “As you wish, Your Excellence.”

He noticed there were no guards in the chamber with them. That struck him as odd. He had always envisioned royalty as being surrounded at all times with underlings and courtiers and minstrels. “Pardon me, Your Excellence, but why am I here?”

“I wanted to measure you for myself.”

There was a look in her eyes that made him want to step back, but he held his ground. “Measure me?”

“Yes. To evaluate you without all the prying eyes of the court. I want to know what kind of man you are, to wield such power. And yet so meek, to allow yourself to be taken as a slave.”

He gestured around the room. “Aren't you concerned to be alone with me?”

She showed her teeth, which were straight and white against the fullness of her red lips. “There are many in this realm, Master Horace, who would tremble to be alone with me.”

Oh, I believe it.

“I can't tell you much more than I did before. I don't know what happened during the storm. I don't know if I really affected it, or it just ended on its own. I'm no magician or wizard, or whatever you call it. Just a simple man.”

The queen strolled over to a sumptuous divan and sat down. Her perfume hung in the air, beckoning him to follow. Horace had to force himself not to let his gaze linger too long on her curves.

“Whatever you are, Master Horace, I'm convinced that ‘simple’ is not part of the description. I believe what you say, that you have no knowledge of what you did. It is not a common occurrence in Akeshia for someone to possess the zoana unknowingly, for we test our children at an early age and cultivate those who show the signs. But it may be different in your country.”

“I've never heard of any such tests, Your Excellence. And we have no zoanii among us. At least, we aren't ruled by witches and sorcerers.” He winced at that last statement.

Good work. Call the woman who decides whether you live or die a witch.

“Pardon my ill manners, Excellence,” he added quickly. “I have little experience with talking to mighty persons like yourself. I meant to say that our king is just an ordinary man. Well, not ordinary, exactly. He's royalty after all, but…”

The queen leaned back and turned in such a way that her breasts pressed against the fabric of her dress. “I've heard that some people in your country don't believe in the zoana. But you know differently now, don't you? You've seen it. Felt it flowing through you.”

“With all respect, Excellence, I don't know what I felt.”

He braced himself. What would come next? Torture? The rack and red-hot pincers? Castration? He'd heard the horror stories about these people. He swore to himself that he would face it bravely, without begging or sniveling, no matter what they did to him.

“Will you let me examine you?” she asked.

Horace knew what she meant. The same thing Lord Isiratu had done to him, entering his mind with sorcery. He gazed into the queen's jet-black eyes. He wanted to trust her. “All right. What do I do?”

She patted the seat next to her. “Come here.”

As he sat down, the queen lifted her hands. She had delicate fingers, the nails painted deep crimson. She wore two rings, a huge diamond-bedecked circlet on her left middle finger and a band of plain white gold on her right forefinger. She laid her hands against the sides of his face. Horace took a deep breath. “What do you want me to d—?”

His question was strangled as a rush of pressure clamped around his head. His lungs seized up as she stared into his eyes. Horace wanted to pull away from the vise squeezing his skull, but he couldn't move. Her eyes held him tight, and he felt himself drawn into their black depths. Pictures flashed in his head, distracting him. He stood on the deck of the Bantu Ray again as the carrack pulled out to sea, Avice dwindling in the background. Then the sky darkened and the sea turned into a boiling cauldron as the ship bucked beneath his feet. Ghostly-green lightning flashed through the storm clouds, and a sharp pain pierced Horace's chest. Suddenly, the ship vanished and he was drowning in the frothy sea. His vision grew murky. After some time, light appeared in small spots that wheeled about each other. Slowly—ever so slowly—they resolved into an image. It was Sari, his wife. She stood in the tiny yard outside their home, smiling over her shoulder as she hung their laundry on the line. Josef played at her feet with a stick. Sorrow, sharp as a razor and tinged with sweetness, sliced through Horace as he relived that memory. The day had been blustery. He could feel the cold through the oversized seaman's coat he had inherited from his father, felt the wind scuffing his face. As always, his wife and son never seemed to mind the cold. He started to turn, to walk back inside the warm house.

Go back! Look at them one last time, just for a moment. Just a moment longer. Please!

The image was replaced by an older memory. Horace saw his father, with a stylus behind his ear, bending over the old drafting table he kept in his workroom behind the house. The windows were dark, the room lit by a rusty oil lamp hanging from a nail. Horace stood in the doorway, afraid to disturb him while he was working. But then his father looked up and smiled through his thin gray beard and beckoned for Horace to come closer. Horace took a step, but then he remembered that this was just a dream of the past. His father was dead and buried.

Horace felt the queen's magic sifting through his memories. He had understood that she would do something like this, but he hadn't expected it to be so intrusive. He pushed back, unwilling to let her dig deeper. The pain in his head expanded, seizing him and shaking him like a mouse caught in the jaws of a wolfhound. He pushed back harder, getting angry, and this time the pressure diminished. The parade of memories in his head stopped, catapulting Horace back into the queen's chambers. She frowned as her eyes bore into him. Horace tried to tell her to stop, that he wanted this to end, but he couldn't utter a sound. He summoned all his strength, backed by the resentment that had been building these past couple weeks. The deaths of his countrymen. His enslavement. The imprisonments. All of these humiliations welled up inside him on a tide of rage. He would have screamed if he was able. Instead, everything channeled into one great mental push.

The queen flew back against the divan, knocking two cushions to the floor. She held up her hands as if they had been burned, though nothing marred the smooth palms. Panic gripped Horace as he looked at her face. For a moment her features were stretched tight in indignation, nothing like the beautiful seductress she had been a moment ago. She looked so wild he almost expected her to attack him. Then the moment passed, and her face smoothed once again. But Horace couldn't forget what he had seen. It still lurked behind her fathomless eyes, a lethal spider waiting under its trapdoor to spring.

Horace took a deep breath. He felt wrung out. If not for the queen's presence, he would have collapsed against the remaining pillows, but he was afraid now more than ever. He had seen the ferocity that hid behind her stately facade and felt its response within himself. He didn't know which scared him more.

“I'm very sorry,” he mumbled as he stood up, hoping his legs were stable enough to hold him.

But the queen reclined, wearing a lazy smile as if nothing had happened. “There is no reason for apologies, Master Horace. Your mind is quite…interesting. And now I believe you more than ever. There is no sign of esoteric teaching in your thought patterns.”

“So you're done with me then?”

“There is so much more to you than meets the eye. Your strength is quite phenomenal. I would like you to remain.”

“Here?” Horace struggled to calm his breathing. “In your—?”

“In the palace,” she finished for him. “As our guest. You represent a new factor in the growing conflict between our two nations. We would like to learn more about you. And perhaps we can show you some new things, as well. A cultural exchange. Will you do this for us?”

Horace nodded even as he found himself taking a step backward. “All right. I suppose, if it would help matters between our countries.”

Do I have a choice?

“Tomorrow night there will be a small gathering here at the palace. You will accompany me.” The queen clapped her hands. “Good day, Master Horace.”

Horace struggled to find his voice. “Of course. It would be my honor. Good day, Your Excellence.”

The two guards from the atrium entered. After bowing to the queen, they escorted Horace out of the chamber. He looked back, but the queen was departing through an archway with her slaves. He had the impression that he had escaped the tiger's den.

That thought followed him all the way back to his room.