“Ni.”

“Ni,” he repeated.

“Fa.”

“Fe.”

“No,” she said. “Fa.”

“Fa,” he said.

“Ti.”

Horace leaned back on the divan and ran his fingers through his hair. “Can we take a break?”

Alyra set down the papyrus, upon which were drawn the letters of the Akeshian alphabet. For the last three hours she had been trying to teach Horace how to read, and his head felt like it was going to burst from all the foreign sounds and phrases running through it. She held up a stylus. “What is this called?”

Horace struggled against the urge to use the word for “shit,” which she'd inadvertently taught him, and instead played the part of a grateful student. “Kamei.”

“Good.” She pointed to the lamp. “And that?”

“I could really use a—”

“What is it called?”

“Nuru,” he mumbled.

“Nuru is ‘light,’” she said. “‘Lamp’ is immaru.”

He tugged on the ends of his hair until they hurt. “Enough! I can't learn the entire damned language in a day!”

She moved back, putting space between them. “You won't learn it at all if you're going to act like a spoiled child.”

Alyra picked up another scroll from the table in the center of the sitting room and unrolled the heavy papyrus. “Let's return to translating. You were doing well.”

Horace pushed the pile of scrolls away with his foot. “Later. I've had enough stories about pagan gods and talking animals. Between you and Lord Mulcibar, all I've been doing is studying.”

“Well, you have a lot to learn.”

“You think I don't know that?!” He glared at her but then sighed as he rubbed his forehead. “I'm sorry. It's not you.”

Alyra sat back in the divan. “I know. So why don't you tell me what is really bothering you?”

“It's too much to absorb all at once. And I haven't been sleeping very well since…”

“The storm,” she said for him.

“Yes.”

Horace rubbed his eyes. He'd hardly slept the past two nights. Every time he tried, the events on the palace roof came crashing back. He felt the power all the time now, stirring inside his chest like a coiled serpent ready to strike, both thrilling and dangerous. Last night he'd found himself on his knees beside his bed, trying to pray for deliverance from this cursed power, but no words came.

“Everything is so mixed up,” he said. “Why am I here? What does it all mean?”

“What if it means nothing?”

“I think that scares me the most. I'd like to know what the queen wants with me.”

“You're valuable, Horace. The queen recognizes that, so she keeps you near.”

“Valuable?” He laughed. “I'm a foreigner. I don't speak the language very well. And I'm not even worth ransoming.”

“You're a sorcerer of power. In every city of Akeshia, the ruling houses bind the zoanii to them. By marriage, by title, even with blackmail. Because whoever controls the most power—zoana—controls the empire. The queen will seek to use you or, barring that, to make sure that no one else can use you against her.”

Alyra was leaning close to him. So close that Horace could smell the scent of the soap she used and the faint oils in her hair. The urge to touch her came over him. Fast on its heels, though, were a host of self-recriminations.

She's a slave. She has no free will to deny you. And what of Sari? Have you forgotten her so soon?

Guilt eating at his insides, Horace picked up the papyrus and tried to commit the symbols to memory. “Anyway, Lord Mulcibar is coming by today.”

Alyra shot to her feet. “He's coming here?”

“That's what he said.”

Alyra all but ran to her small room. She came back out and hurried past, a short cloak wrapped about her shoulders. “I must attend…the queen,” she said. “I forgot until now. I'll return this evening and we'll work on your penmanship.”

She stopped at the door and looked back. “Horace, be careful around Lord Mulcibar.”

“Why do you say that? He's been decent to me since I got here. More decent than anyone else except for you.”

“I know. But he's a member of the queen's court and a—”

Alyra jumped as someone knocked on the door. She answered it, bowing from the waist as Lord Mulcibar entered. “Please be welcome, my lord.”

The nobleman limped inside with a polite nod. “I trust I am not too early?”

Horace stood up. “Not at all. Come in.”

Alyra dipped out the door and closed it behind her. Horace smiled to cover his unease and tried not to stare at the nobleman's scarred face. “Uh, can I take your cloak?”

Lord Mulcibar waved him away. “No, no. At my age, you live in perpetual fear of a sudden chill.”

In this heat? He's got to be joking.

Horace glanced around his suite. “Very well. Where shall we…er, I mean is there any special place where we should go for…?”

“How about the courtyard? It's a lovely day.”

“All right.” In addition to a grand view of the city, Horace's apartment had access to a private terrace with a garden.

On the way out, Mulcibar stopped beside the table and picked up the sheet of papyrus. “I'm trying to learn,” Horace said, “but Akeshian isn't the easiest language to pick up. And the writing is just a mess of scribbles to me.”

“In a way, you are correct.” Lord Mulcibar pointed to the first letter. “Ska is derived from the phrase ska'vin sin'telluras a idadne.”

“Shit,” Horace muttered. “And I thought ska was hard enough to memorize.”

“It means ‘the dawn of the first day of the world.’ And it was originally written like this.” Mulcibar picked up the stylus, dipped it into the inkwell, and drew an elaborate set of lines and curves. Horace craned his neck. “I see. It looks like the sun coming up over the horizon. And there's a bird flying above it.”

“The bird is He'idadne. The first creature made by Endu, the lord of the sky. But you can see how this pictogram eventually became the first letter, ska.”

“I guess so. It seems a lot more complicated than Arnossi.”

“Keep working at it.”

They went outside and down a winding set of steps to the walled terrace. Tall shrubs lined the walls amid flowerbeds with blossoms in more colors than Horace could name, lending the space a park-like atmosphere. Lord Mulcibar gazed up at the clear sky. He seemed to be looking for something, but Horace couldn't see anything except the sun riding past its zenith, its rays beating down on them.

“You have heard about the attack in the city,” Mulcibar said.

A nervous feeling uncoiled in Horace's stomach. “Yes. Some soldiers were killed, and there's a rumor that foreigners were involved.”

“Yes, that seems to be the case.”

“I don't know what to say. I'm actually surprised that I haven't been clapped in irons again as a suspect.”

The nobleman turned to him with a pleasant smile. “If I didn't know exactly where you were at the time and in the hours leading up to the attack, you might be. But Her Majesty knows you had no part in it.”

“That's good.”

“Yes. Now, shall we begin?”

Mulcibar walked to the far side of the courtyard, a distance of about twenty paces, and turned around. Horace stood facing him. “What do you want me to—?”

Mulcibar held up a hand. “Please, do not talk. Just listen.”

Horace waited for a minute, thinking the nobleman would explain further, but Mulcibar merely watched him. “What am I supposed to be listening to?” Horace asked.

“To the wind blowing. To the stirring of the branches and the flower petals. To your own heartbeat. When you listen to these things in stillness, you are listening through your qa.”

“I don't understand.”

“Don't talk. Listen.”

Horace swallowed his questions. He could suffer a little peace and quiet, especially if it meant Mulcibar was going to teach him how to use this force inside him. Yet, as the minutes passed by, his mind began to wander. Where had Alyra gone in such a hurry? He didn't believe her excuse about serving the queen. There was something suspicious going on. Perhaps she had a lover. The thought made Horace uncomfortable, and the discomfort irritated him. He had no rights to her. She belonged to the queen. And yet he felt like they had shared some intimate moments these past couple days. Certainly bathing had taken on a whole new meaning to him. She was beautiful. Perfect. In Arnos, she could have been the wife of a rich man with a family and a fine estate, but here she was just a slave. Horace felt his temperature rising as thoughts of her condition made him angry. If he wasn't careful, he would start sweating through his silk robe. A breeze tickled the nape of his neck.

“There,” Lord Mulcibar said, finally breaking the silence. “Do you feel it? Moving inside you like a river of heat.”

No, I don't feel anything except—

Then Horace realized he was feeling something. The now-familiar stirring in his chest, warm but also cold. It had come with the anger, so he hadn't recognized it, but now that he was paying attention he could differentiate between the two sensations. The anger was raw and red in his mind's eye. The other feeling was smoother and deeper. He followed it like a cord inside his chest, down into his stomach where it blossomed into a host of strange perceptions. He tried to understand what he felt, but it was impossible to put into words. It was like a second heartbeat, but somehow deeper inside him.

“You feel it,” Mulcibar said. His eyes were closed, his arms loose by his sides. For once, he didn't stoop over or lean on his cane. He looked stronger than before, and younger, too.

“I don't know,” Horace replied. “When it happened before, it was like a fountain of white-hot steel exploding out of me. But now I see…”

“Yes?”

Horace described the hot-and-cold sensation and the second heartbeat, and Mulcibar smiled. “My teacher called it the Gate of Heaven. It is your qa, the source of your power. Through it, you will access the zoana. We spend years discovering how to tap into this power and bend it to our will.”

Horace squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to observe the mystical second-heart. It pulsed in a strange rhythm, sluggish one moment and then faster the next. “I don't know. When I did whatever I did to the storm, I didn't call on any special source. It just happened.”

“You did without realizing it. That is very rare and also quite dangerous. That's why the queen asked me to instruct you. If you cannot control the zoana, it could be unleashed at any time, but especially when you are feeling angry or afraid.”

That pretty much sums up every waking moment since I landed on your shores.

“All right. So how do we proceed?”

“Be still and listen.”

Horace groaned under his breath, but he did as the nobleman instructed.

“Breathe naturally and try to focus on the gateway inside you. There are four dominions of the zoana, corresponding to the elements of nature. Kishargal for the earth. It represents solidity and physical strength. Girru is the dominion of flame, for energy and aggression. Imuvar is the wind, seat of understanding and emotional awareness. And the last is Mordab.”

Mulcibar lifted a hand, and a ball of clear liquid appeared in the air before him. “Water is the element of fluidity and flexibility. It is my primary dominion. I also have some skill with Imuvar.”

Horace frowned at the watery ball passing back and forth between Mulcibar's hands. “Unless you're thirsty, it doesn't sound very intimidat—”

Horace didn't have time to duck as the ball flew toward his face, turning white as it crystalized into a globe of ice. A feeling welled up inside him like all the nerves in his body came alive at once. For a moment he saw a burst of light. Then a shower of cool mist rained over him. He had closed his eyes during the explosion of sensations. When he opened them, Lord Mulcibar stood a couple feet farther away from him. The nobleman's gaze was focused to the side at the garden. Horace swore as he spotted the smoking bush, its branches blackened, the leaves gone. Behind the ruined flora was a fist-sized gouge in the garden wall.

“I only meant to test your reflexes,” Mulcibar said, his tone subdued. “I've never seen anything approximating your response.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…”

“No, it is I who must apologize, Horace. I've never had a student who could apply the zoana so naturally. It usually takes months to learn the proper techniques for summoning and harnessing the power.”

It felt strange to be praised by the old sorcerer for almost killing him. “So what dominion was that?” Horace asked.

“I'm…not sure. But don't worry. With time and experimentation, it will reveal itself to you.”

“But where does the magic come from?”

Lord Mulcibar walked over to one of the garden benches and sat down with his cane between his knees. “To answer that, I will have to ask your forbearance while I tell you a story. A very long time ago, when the first men came to this land, they fished in the waters of the Typhon and learned to grow wheat on its silted plains. It was during that era, according to our oldest records, that the Wanderers came down from the heavens.”

“The Wanderers? Like angels?”

“They were called the children of the stars,” Mulcibar replied. “The sons and daughters of the elder gods, come to teach mankind the gifts of civilization, including the use of zoana. Under their supervision, the great cities were built, and an age of peace and knowledge was born.”

Horace didn't like where this talk of pagan superstitions was going, but he wanted to know about this power inside him badly enough to play along. “So what happened to these gods?”

“They returned to the immortal world. Yet they left behind their gifts. The first magicians were priests as well as zoanii, but over time they separated from the people and set themselves up as the rulers.”

“Hard to argue with someone who can incinerate you with a thought.”

“Precisely. But it's important to remember that the zoana did not cause the problem. Many zoanii feel the power is merely a tool, but it is a manifestation of the worlds, above and below.”

“But I've never had these powers before.”

“I think they must have been there all the time since you were born, but they had no outlet. Not until something triggered them to come to the surface.”

Horace searched his memories and came up with the answer right away. “The storm in the desert.”

“Just so. The energy of the chaos storm called to your zoana and brought it forth.”

“What are the storms? You call them chaos, but what does that mean?”

The old nobleman tapped the end of his cane on the dusty pavestones. “That is more difficult to answer. All things in the cosmos came from chaos. It is the force of creation, as well as destruction.”

Horace looked down at the scars across his palms. “Each time I've seen one of these chaos storms, I get a peculiar feeling. It's raw and powerful, almost angry. It makes me want to break something. Or worse.”

“Some of our seers claim that the storms are the embodiment of the gods’ wrath, sent down as punishment for our failure to follow their divine ways. Others believe they are a trial to cleanse the empire of weakness and to fortify us for some great destiny.”

“You don't sound like you believe either of those theories.”

“My beliefs are a discussion for another day. I don't know why you feel such things, Horace, but I've been thinking about your lack of immaculata. Perhaps if I could perform some tests…”

Horace shifted away. “I don't like the sound of that.”

“Forgive me. I was a student of mathematics and science when I was a young man, and some traces of that investigative mindset still reside with me. Yet I cannot help but suspect that the two—your tremendous power and the fact that you do not bleed while invoking it—are somehow related. Every zoanii sheds the sacred blood while embracing the zoana, even Her Majesty.”

“But what causes it?”

Mulcibar placed his fingers together in a steeple. “The priesthoods teach that the immaculata are the price levied by the gods for the gift of zoana. Blood feeds the power, and the power nourishes the universe.”

“Do you think that's why I don't get the wounds?” Horace asked. “Because I don't follow your ways?”

“It does not seem reasonable to me, but I am no theologian.”

“What does the scientist in you say?”

Mulcibar smiled. “That some tests are in order.”

They laughed, and Horace felt the weight he'd been carrying around inside his chest ease. Mulcibar stood up with a wince. “But for now,” he said, “I would like to try something that may give you better control over your power.”

“Yes, sir. That would be most welcome.”

“Very good. Now relax and stand normally. Breathe in through your nose and let it out. Now repeat after me.”

Mulcibar made a noise that sounded like a bullfrog croaking. Horace almost laughed, but the nobleman's face was serious. “All right,” he said, taking a relaxed pose.

Horace tried to reproduce the sound. It took him several tries, but eventually he got close enough. Then Mulcibar instructed him to fold his hands together with the forefingers extended and pressed together. After a couple minutes of croaking and holding his hands in the rigid position, Horace asked, “So why am I doing this?”

“The sound is designed to focus the mind and body. And the hand positioning aligns your qa to your purpose.”

“Which is what?”

This time when Mulcibar formed a ball of ice and threw it, Horace was more cognizant of the power that welled up inside him. Like a rising wave, it flowed up from his body and ran along his arms to his fingers. He could feel it wanting to burst forth, but he remembered the hole in the garden wall and fought to pull it back. The icy sphere exploded just inches away from his face. Splinters of ice flew in every direction, striking the pavestones at his feet and the leaves of the tree beside him, but not a single shard touched him. Horace exhaled. His whole body was humming.

Lord Mulcibar led him to the bench. Horace sat quietly until the tremors subsided. It felt like a flood of energy had rushed through his body, and was now slowly leaving.

“That was,” he said, “incredible. It didn't feel like what happened during the storms at all. It was more controlled.”

“The zoana is a wild force. Easily provoked. That was quite good, but you must learn to have precise control of the power at all times, or you will be a danger to everyone around you.”

Horace nodded and stood up. His legs were a little shaky, but he managed to stay upright. “All right. Let's get back to work then.”

“Very good, Master Horace.”