The afternoon waned as Horace spent two hours chanting with his hands locked into bizarre configurations while he tried to take control of his qa. By the end of the session, he was wrung out like he'd hiked twenty miles, and his head was killing him.

When Lord Mulcibar departed, Horace sat in the courtyard alone. The lesson played over and over in his mind, but rather than enjoying his limited successes, he dwelled on the failures. Control of the power seemed to slip through his grasp time and time again, leaving him frustrated and more than a little alarmed. He wished Alyra was there to talk to about it, and missing her added to his angst.

Someone knocked at his front door.

He hurried back inside his suite and answered it. Chancellor Unagon stood in the hallway with a pair of manservants.

“Yes?”

Unagon bowed and placed his right hand over his heart. Horace was getting better at understanding Akeshian, but the chancellor spoke too fast for him to follow. “I'm sorry. I didn't understand any of that.”

Chancellor Unagon frowned and then indicated that they wished to come inside. Horace backed up to give them room, and Unagon strode toward the bedchamber with his servants in tow. Horace hurried after them. “Hey! Excuse me!”

The chancellor opened the wardrobe and picked out a long magenta tunic with a silver starburst design on the chest, a matching skirt, and a pair of black sandals. Then he gestured to the servants and said something about helping Horace.

He held up his hands. “Wait a minute. Help me with what?”

Chancellor Unagon spoke slowly. “Dress you, sire. You are to meet the queen.”

Horace lowered his hands, and the servants went into motion. Soon Horace was wearing the selected outfit, with his face and hands washed and his hair combed. Chancellor Unagon fussed over him for about half an hour and then waved him toward the door. Horace obeyed. Outside, a squadron of the queen's bodyguard stood at attention. They saluted him in unison and then fell in around him.

What am I walking into now?

The soldiers took him a different way than before. As they started up a series of switchback staircases, a tremor of anxiety stirred in Horace. Visions of his last visit to the queen's boudoir flashed across his mind. He had to force some lurid thoughts out of his head.

Perhaps she's invited me to dinner on the roof?

The stairs opened into a hallway, a bit narrower than most of the palace passageways he'd seen. The soldiers opened a door, and ruddy sunlight poured in along with a strong breeze that rustled Horace's clothes. Stepping through, he entered onto a wide terrace at the top of the world. The patio was bedecked with so many plants—from flowers and shrubs to waving trees thirty feet tall—that it looked like a forest. Through the verdant décor, he spotted a marble balustrade along the edge overlooking a breathtaking view of the city below.

As the guards took up positions by the door, Horace looked around. The place was a paradise in the sky. He had leaned down to smell a large, yellow flower shaped like a water pitcher when the queen arrived through another door. She was accompanied by a squadron of bodyguards and one of the wizard twins, the one called Gilgar. The sorcerer glared at Horace from three steps behind the queen, and a little tickle traveled up the back of his neck. Horace was ready to pass it off as a product of his anxiety, but then he realized he'd felt it before—the exact same tickle on his neck—when he was practicing with Lord Mulcibar. In fact, he'd felt it several times since his arrival in Akeshia.

It must be tied to the zoana. Their presence, or the queen's, triggered it.

Horace made a formal bow. The queen returned a slight curtsey. This evening she wore a diaphanous gown of white silk, belted high on the waist. Curving designs were stitched into the gown in silver thread. She smiled at him. “I'm so glad you accepted my invitation, Master Horace. I felt like taking an evening ride.”

“Ride, Your Excellence?”

He glanced around. Where could they possibly go up here? And what would they ri—?

Horace's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as a large oblong shape emerged from the shadow of the palace. It was long with curved sides, its wooden bottom extending to sharp wedges fore and aft. With majestic grace, it sailed down toward them.

No, it can't be possible.

The flying ship—and that's the only way he could describe it—floated down beside the terrace. Its upper deck had no masts or rigging, and nothing that resembled a wheelhouse. The gunwales were decorated with intertwining vines painted in gold leaf. This design continued to the forward section where it expanded into a bas relief display showing a row of ships sailing on a sea of clouds, all also done in gold. A purple canopy shaded the center deck.

Three men stood on the deck; one at the bow and two at the stern. As the ship got closer, Horace saw that each man clasped waist-high metal poles that rose from the planking.

“What do you think of my barge?” Byleth asked as she followed him to the balustrade.

Horace swallowed. “I would have never believed it if I wasn't seeing it for myself. A flying ship! A real flying ship just like in the legends. How does it work?”

She laid a hand on his wrist, sending feathery touches up his spine. “I'll explain during the trip.”

“We're actually going aboard?”

“Of course. I want to show you something.”

A voice hailed from behind them. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Master Horace.”

Lord Mulcibar emerged onto the terrace, hobbling on his cane. He had changed since meeting with Horace into a soft cornflower robe with a black cape.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” The queen drew nearer to Horace and shifted her hand to wrap around his upper arm. “Shall we?”

Lord Mulcibar nodded and waved them ahead. Horace, eager to see the flying ship up close, moved to the narrow gangplank that had been lowered. Byleth went across without pause, but Horace—despite his excitement—could not help from looking down. Empty space yawned on either side of the bridge, dropping hundreds of feet to the grounds below. His throat constricted at the sight and a momentary wave of vertigo took hold of him, but he forced his feet to carry him across.

He felt better when he stepped aboard the flying vessel and felt the buoyant spring of the deck. The wind blowing through his hair was dry and fragrant, but it was close enough to a sea breeze that he didn't mind. A faint vibration ran through the boards under his feet. It traveled up his legs and tickled his backbone, like he was standing on a vast beehive.

The deck was long but not very wide, and it felt crowded as the last bodyguard climbed aboard. The gangplank was pulled up, and the ship set off. It turned like a gigantic bird, with slow and gentle grace as it took a northwesterly course. The deck swayed gently from side to side, almost like the roll of a seagoing vessel.

“Where are we going?” Horace asked.

“We're taking a little tour,” the queen said. “Come. Stand with me over here.”

The others gave Horace and Byleth some room as she pulled him to the larboard side of the flying ship. He steeled himself to look over the polished railing that encircled the deck. The ship had risen even farther off the ground. The palace was already far behind and below them as they sailed over the city. The buildings and streets dwindled beneath them, the people shrinking to the size of fleas until he couldn't distinguish them anymore.

After a few minutes, his nervousness melted away. It felt good to be aboard a ship again, even one soaring hundreds of fathoms above the ground.

“Do you see there?” The queen pointed at a sprawling building with several wings and a large expanse of gardens inside a stone enclosure. “That is where I grew up. Except when my father sent me to the springs at Hikkak every winter.”

“Winter?” Horace said. “Does it get cold here then?”

“Oh, yes. Sometimes we have to wear jackets or shawls outside and burn coals in our rooms at night.” She pressed her breasts against his arm so that he could feel her small nipples through the silk. “Of course, there are more interesting ways to stay warm.”

Not sure how to respond, especially in the company of Lord Mulcibar and the guards, Horace studied the city beneath them. They were passing over blackened areas that looked like they had engulfed entire neighborhoods. The destruction was complete, leaving not a single outbuilding untouched. “Are those the granaries?”

“No. Those were the barracks of my city guard. They were burned down on the night of the storm.”

Horace looked to the queen, knowing he had to say something. “Your Excellence, I just want you to know I had nothing to do with the attack.”

She reached up to run a fingernail along the underside of his jaw. “Of course not, Horace. I never suspected you for a moment. It was done by my enemies, who want to see me dead.”

He held still, neither pulling back nor leaning into her. “People are trying to kill you?”

One of the soldiers shifted, making his armor creak. Horace glanced back. Everyone was watching them. Except Lord Mulcibar, who leaned against the starboard rail.

“Though I try to rule lightly,” the queen said, “there are some who would stop at nothing to pull me down. Your countrymen, for instance. They used the cover of the storm to kill my guards and burn the granaries that feed my people. If they are not stopped, someday they may succeed in ending my life.”

“I'm…I'm sorry. I hope they won't succeed.”

“I believe that. Do you recall that you asked me about Tammuris?”

“Yes. That envoy, Lord Baphetor, mentioned it. You never told me why.”

“The Tammuris comes in five days on the new moon. That evening I must wed my betrothed, Prince Tatannu. Lord Baphetor was so kind to remind me that my fate has been sealed.”

“I don't understand.”

“That is the pact I signed with the other cities when my father was killed.” Byleth leaned over the rail, which made Horace's stomach want to crawl up into his throat. “In exchange for my life, I promised to wed the son of my father's archenemy. That day approaches, and when it comes the Sun Temple will rule Erugash in name as well as deed, and I will cease to be valuable. Do you know what happens to a queen once she no longer has any value?”

“In Arnos, the queen is the mother of our people. She always has value.”

“In Akeshia, a woman has only what value her husband says she has, whether she is a queen or a shepherdess.”

Horace cleared his throat and flailed for another subject, anything to take her mind off the situation. He decided on something that interested him very much. “So are you going to tell me how this ship works?”

She took him by the elbow. “Come along, Master Horace.”

What followed was a detailed explanation of the flying ship, which, though extraordinary, was rather simple. The three men holding onto the metal poles were, of course, zoanii, and they powered the ship's engine—which was kept belowdecks—with their magic. The ship was steered by the helmsman at the fore instead of the aft like on a nautical vessel. The men at the stern controlled the amount of power that flowed to the engine.

“What if something happened to one of the men powering the ship?” Horace asked. “Would it fall?”

“Not at once,” Byleth answered. “With two zoanii powering the engine, we could still fly, though at a far slower pace.”

“And with only one?”

“I'm not sure. Shall I command them to let go and see what happens?”

“Ah, no, thank you, Excellence. Can I see the engine?”

Byleth huddled closer and squeezed his arm. “I don't know. It's quite cramped below, and I might not be able to restrain myself with you in such close quarters.”

He leaned into her until their faces were almost touching. “Why don't we find out?”

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Are you more interested in me or how the engine works?”

He couldn't help from smiling. “Well, both, actually.”

“Unfortunately, only those trained by the imperial school in Ceasa are allowed to view the inner workings. I'm sure you understand.”

Of course I do. If Arnos had a vehicle like this, we'd keep it a secret, too.

Horace turned his attention to the land below. The sun was just a sliver of gold above the horizon. They had passed far beyond the city limits. The land hugging the river was divided into square sections of honey-brown fields, but everything beyond the riparian zone was a wasteland of cracked earth and dust. Ahead to the northwest, the wastes gave way to a vast golden sea. Even from a distance—and it had to be a score of leagues or more—the desert was impressive, beautiful and mysterious like the women of this strange land, and just as dangerous. The sun was setting before them, framing the world in a brilliant orange patina.

“Tell me more about your homeland,” the queen said.

Horace studied the sky. It was crystal blue without a hint of clouds. From this high, he felt like he could see forever. “I miss the smells.”

“The perfumes of your pale northern ladies?”

“No. The smells of leather and horse. The stink of the city streets, the middens and the fish smells of the docks. The smell of pitch and pinewood.”

She wrinkled her tiny nose. “It sounds filthy.”

“It is. But it's home.”

He wanted to ask her if he could leave, just take a ship and go back to Arnos, but he was terrified of her answer. Why had she brought him along on this cruise? Somehow, he didn't think it was to woo him. Not in the romantic sense, at least.

“Our teachers say that the western countries are always making war,” she said. “What do you say to that?”

“I guess I'd say they're right. We've had several wars just during my lifetime. And the Great War between the Nimean Empire and its outer states was only a century and a half ago. But we have peaceful times as well. Our trade depends on it.”

“But you served on a ship of war.”

“The Bantu Ray was merchantman originally. But when the crusade got underway, we were commandeered for the war effort. Our captain didn't have much choice in the matter.”

Her fingers plucked at his sleeve. “So you are not a zealot, gripped by the furor of your one god? No, I think you are more like a piece of wood floating on the river, pushed wherever the water goes.”

“Flotsam.”

“What?”

Horace shook his head. “Nothing. You may be right. I signed on with the Ray because I wanted to belong to something real, something bigger than my life. I suppose that must be hard for a queen to understand.”

“No, it's not.” She traced the palm of his left hand, over the mottled whirls and dimples of the ruined flesh. “How did you get these scars? They are not immaculata.”

Her eyes were so big and dark through the forest of lashes. He had the sudden urge to kiss her, but he tamped it down. “What do you want with me?”

He expected a rebuke for his forwardness or a disdainful look for failing to play her games, but instead the queen said, “I need to know more about your people. How far will they press their crusade against Akeshia? What would convince them to give up the fight?”

On some level, Horace knew she wanted him for something other than companionship, but it still stung to hear. “From what I saw, Your Excellence, nothing will deter them. The Church will not rest until your country has been defeated and converted to the True Faith, whether that takes a year or a century.”

She said something under her breath that Horace didn't catch. They had entered the desert. The sands flowed beneath them like a golden blanket. Beautiful, but Horace could still remember their brutal heat. Thinking of the journey with Jirom and Gaz reminded him of the desert storm. That entire day was foggy in his memory. The only thing he remembered clearly was the moment the power—his zoana—left his body. It had been like drowning, only to break the surface of the water to find air once again.

He was lost in his thoughts, watching the dunes pass by, when he spotted a dark smudge on the horizon. Horace shaded his eyes against the dwindling daylight and made out some kind of settlement encircled by a long, low wall—at least it looked low from this distance. Square buildings and lean towers nestled inside the fortifications. The flying ship slowed its velocity and turned due west on a course that would take it close to the town. As they got closer, Horace could see a second dark smudge outside the wall. He squinted and leaned over the rail. It was too far away to count, but he guessed there had to be hundreds of tents staked out on the sands. Earthworks and defensive fortifications surrounded the walls. The town was under siege.

“Who's fighting?” he asked.

The queen pointed to the settlement. “That is Omikur, one of my most vital holdings in the desert. It had never fallen to an invading force, until two days ago when it was seized by an army from Etonia.”

Crusaders. The soldiers aboard the Bantu Ray might have been in that army, if not for the storm that destroyed the ship.

“We suspect the invaders might have had an agent inside the town,” she said. “However it was done, the capture was a bold move, especially since they are many leagues from the sea and the protection of your fleets.”

Horace's anxiety returned, making him sweat despite the strong breeze that flowed across the deck. “And the camp is your army?”

“My Third Legion, under the command of Lord General Arishaka.”

There must be five thousand men in that camp, with another three or four thousand strung out along the siegeworks.

“I'm afraid I won't be much use as a soldier, Your Excellence.”

Her laughter rang over the winds. “Master Horace, really! You think I would ask you to fight your own people? No, we are here merely to observe.”

A little relieved but still not sure how much to believe her, Horace focused his attention on the siege. With the daylight waning, he didn't expect much activity. Yet men scurried along the earthworks, and the town walls were filled with soldiers. Were any of the defenders from Arnos? It would be impossible to tell unless the ship flew close enough for him to make out their banners. Horace tried to imagine what the men on those walls were thinking, surrounded by a vast enemy, far from their own lines. The queen was right. Taking this town had been a bold move, and maybe a fatal one for the invaders.

Perhaps reinforcements are already on the march. If they can hold out for a few days, they might be rescued.

Horace glanced at the queen out of the corner of his eye, hoping she couldn't read his expression. He had a hard time swallowing, and not just from the dry desert air. Fortunately, a bodyguard came over with refreshments. Horace accepted a copper goblet and peered inside. It was a light red wine smelling slightly of cloves. He took a long drink despite its sharp aftertaste.

Horace almost spilled the cup as a horn sounded below. He hadn't noticed the ship descending; they were now only a couple bowshots above the dunes and sailing along at a slower pace. As he looked over the side, a forest of great wooden arms sprang up from the earthworks, sending dozens of fireballs sailing through the sundered twilight. The orbs of burning death burst, some upon the battlements where they spread viscous flames among the troops, and others inside the town, exploding in the streets. Yet the town was well designed against attack. The walls were protected by machicolations and hoardings with sloped roofs that repelled the burning missiles. Still, a few penetrated the defenses. Soldiers thrashed as they burned. The fortunate ones were put to the sword by their comrades, but too often those comrades also caught fire when they came too close to their burning fellows, and so the carnage spread. Horace had seen burning pitch demonstrated before, but the fires launched by these incendiaries stuck and burned for far longer than pitch or oil.

“My God,” he muttered, unable to take his eyes from the devastation.

“Not your god,” Byleth said, “nor any of mine. This is science and sorcery, the worst of both.” She shook her head. “Do you see what monsters war makes of us all?”

Horace tried to watch the scene below with detachment, but it wasn't easy. Now seeing the town's walls up close, they were sturdier than he first thought. And although the firepots were deadly, the defenders were quick to douse them with sand, which worked much better than water. Gazing at the great catapults amid the earthworks cocking back for another volley, Horace was tempted to try his powers, to sever the pulley ropes that worked the siege weapons or to ignite the firepots in midair. He made no move to help the defenders, however. With the queen standing so close to him, she would sense if he tried anything.

His stomach dropped when a crackle of thunder raced across the sky above. The hull creaked as the vessel swung around on a northerly course, circling the town. Yet Horace was watching the sky.

Byleth said something, and the helmsman consulted a spherical device mounted beside his station before answering. The only word Horace caught was “hour.” Then clouds appeared from nowhere, and the sky darkened.

He jerked upright when a powerful shock raced up his spine. Thunder crashed over the ship as a bolt of lurid green lightning shot from the sky. The clouds swirled with twisting winds, gathering into a maelstrom above the city. Horace's gaze was drawn to the center of the storm. There, behind the screen of thunderheads, he sensed a presence.

The hunger. An insatiable need to destroy and consume. It washed over him and entered him. He was powerless to resist its call, unable to stop the connection between him and the longing. And in that moment he sensed he was close to understanding something vital about the storm, or maybe himself.

The ship shuddered as a tongue of lightning slashed the sky off the starboard bow. Over the crackling after-rumbles, someone was laughing. Horace looked to the queen in shock. Her eyes were pits of utter darkness in the deepening twilight.

“What say you, Storm Lord?” she asked. “Shall we dance with the gods?”