Nolyn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Arvis found a half-burnt torch discarded beside the front door of a home. Maybe it wasn’t thrown away. Perhaps it was left there for use in lighting the door lamp, and by taking it, she was stealing. But speculation was an instrument of the mind, and the heart would hear none of it. She snatched the torch up, caught the end on fire using the lamp by the door, and off she ran—a wild woman armed with flame and fury. Back into the alley she charged, torch spitting sparks as she skidded to a stop at the ominous square of black cut into the ground.

  Arvis’s mind objected, but her heart was deaf to protests, and into the hole she went. Feet-first she fell with no thought, no precaution, no plan. In her chest, a drumbeat pounded, a rapid call to action that dismissed everything else as cowardice. She hit the bottom by slapping into sludge and ankle-deep water with a splash. She chose to believe it was water, and maybe some of it was, but it didn’t smell that way. The moment she landed, she gagged at the thick stench that made breathing a conscious decision.

  She stood in a narrow corridor that ran parallel to the alley above. The walls were formed of thick blocks of mortar-free stone. She couldn’t see the end of the passage in either direction, but then her lone torch was ill suited to the task. Without it, she would have been at a loss, and her heart grudgingly acknowledged that her mind wasn’t a total idiot.

  The ongoing cries, a series of now staccato eruptions and gasps, led Arvis in a direction—which direction she failed to register. Reaching a four-way intersection, again she charged ahead, led by her wailing north star. Overcoming the stench, the slime-covered walls, and the muck squishing beneath her feet, she drove on.

  The rats she noticed. More than a couple, more than a few, the chilly spring night had driven the rodent nation underground. The corridors were filled with a constant flow of scurrying piebald bodies and naked tails. They moved with nearly as much purpose as she, climbing over the bodies of those before them who dared to pause. At times, Arvis struggled to find free real estate to land her feet on, and she often crushed several of the creatures, and not always with the sandaled foot.

  Another turn, another corridor and then . . .

  She waited.

  Silence.

  Arvis stood in the water, listening, but the crying had stopped.

  I’m too late. The bread, the bread is . . .

  Arvis began to sob, as much for the loss of the child as for her own mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Orinfar

  By the third day, Nolyn was feeling better. He’d always suffered chronic seasickness, and the current trip had been no different—ironic though, given that the imperial warship Stryker had been bobbing cork-fashion down the Estee River and didn’t actually reach the sea until then. All oar and rudder work, there was no need for sails while riding the current. The billowing of the canvas was what tipped him off that things had changed. Nolyn had been crouched in his usual ball of misery near the bow when he heard the canvas being let out. Lifting his head, he noticed the great gold dragon on the blue field, the symbol of the imperial House of Nyphronian, his own standard, blooming out like the chest of a proud father. Feeling sun on his skin, Nolyn breathed deeply. Air—cool, fresh, and salty—tousled his hair and blew across sweat-stained cheeks.

  I don’t need to vomit.

  The thought came as a surprise. For three days, he’d been either retching, on the verge of doing so, or in that pre-heave stage that promised those miseries to come. For the first time, he felt none of that. In exchange, he now suffered a painful emptiness in his stomach, a dash of dizziness, and a general weakness, all of which were welcomed, since they heralded the end of his anguish.

  Seasickness had always progressed the same way. He knew the signs of each stage and was finally done with the middle one where he cocooned himself, obsessed with his own agony. That was the worst part, the blackout period similar to a fever when he knew nothing and cared less. The last stage, which he labeled post-storm, would come soon, but the worst was over; all that remained was the grim task of assessing the damage. He hadn’t managed to keep anything in his stomach for three days, which left him weak. Despite his lack of food, he wasn’t overly hungry, and he worried that eating would send him back to the blackout stage.

  Water. He needed that more than anything. The thought ignited a desperate want, and he was about to take the chance of standing up when he spotted Amicus Killian crossing the deck with a cup in his hands.

  “What’s that?” he asked hopefully.

  “Beer.”

  “Isn’t there any water?”

  “None that you’d want to drink,” Amicus said, handing the cup over and sitting beside Nolyn. “The Stryker had only docked for a few hours before we insisted they leave. Like any sensible commander, the captain ordered the restocking of his beer barrels first. The water has a nice green scum. But if you prefer . . .”

  Nolyn waved his hand to make Amicus stop, then pressed the metal cup to his lips. He wanted to guzzle it all, but he had learned from experience that doing so would be bad. So he forced himself to endure the torture of sipping. As expected, it was sailor’s ale, the typical watered-down cousin to real beer. No sane captain would stock the genuine article on a vessel full of armed men.

  “You’ve done this before,” Amicus observed.

  “What? Been sick?”

  The soldier nodded. “I partially filled that cup on purpose, so you couldn’t gulp down too much.”

  Nolyn revealed a pathetic smile. “Not my first voyage. Ever since my father established the Imperial Navy, he’s enjoyed torturing me with it. That’s . . .” He paused to think, but his mind was still too befuddled to be exact. “Well, several hundred years of misery, at least. You don’t suffer from Eraphus’s Wrath?”

  “If you mean seasickness, no. What did you call it?”

  “Eraphus’s Wrath,” Nolyn said. “Eraphus was the ancient god of the sea, from pre-imperial times.”

  With an amazed expression, Amicus shook his head. “I keep forgetting how old you are. Must be strange. The world must have been very different when you were young.”

  “True, but the changes happen so slowly that it’s not as odd as you might expect. But yeah, I’ve seen a lot. When I was young, there weren’t really any human cities, just clusters of small pockets where homes were built on hilltops surrounded by wood-and-earth walls. People huddled in fear of the night, gods, and spirits. After the Great War, we became civilized. My mother made that possible. She was amazing—so courageous, so wise. I wish I were more like her. Although at times, I suspect she longed for simpler days.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just the way she used to talk about living in Dhal Rhen. Everyone knew everyone else. The clan was one big family. They took care of one another. Now . . . well, people starve in the streets of Percepliquis because they don’t have money to pay for bread.”

  “Your mother knew Roan of Rhen, yes?”

  Nolyn nodded. “Of course.”

  “An amazing person. I suppose people were smarter back then, or maybe there were more things to invent. I’ve heard it said that there’s nothing left to discover now. Still, it seems incredible that one man managed to single-handedly create hundreds of inventions in just a single summer before the Battle of Grandford: the wheel, metallurgy, the bow and arrow, and all sorts of other things we now take for granted.”

  Nolyn smiled. “Your information is a little faulty.”

  Amicus looked surprised.

  “First of all, Roan was a woman.”

  That was met with a facial crush of confusion.

  “The rest is gross exaggeration. I mean, she was an undisputed genius, perhaps the greatest mind the world has ever known, but in retrospect, people are fond of simplifying to suit their narrative. Even my mother often referred to the thousands of discoveries Roan had made without realizing people would take her literally. In truth, during that summer before the Battle of Grandford, Roan only invented two significant things:
the pocket and the bow and arrow. And the pocket did little to win the war.”

  Amicus looked unconvinced. “What about the wheel? She created it, allowing the clans to travel, and it gave way to the war chariot.”

  “She thought of putting a pole through the center of a potter’s wheel, but the wheel had already been in use by the dwarfs and Fhrey for hundreds of years. As it happened, there were dwarfs there at the time and they did most of the work, explaining to Roan about axles and bushings and such.”

  “What about smithing metal?”

  “In those days, humans had been smelting copper and tin for centuries. And she learned how to make bronze and iron from the dwarfs in Caric. That was the great talent of hers, the ability to observe in detail and remember, but again, watching and repeating isn’t the same as inventing.”

  “And steel?”

  “She used a formula found in Neith, but even with that and an army of assistants—three of whom were dwarfs—it still took her almost a year to work out a process, which she continued to refine for the rest of her life.”

  “But there were other things, too. What about barrels, shears, and . . .” Amicus struggled to remember. “Oh, yes, ink and glaze.”

  “She did invent a kind of ink, but barrels were invented by the dwarfs, and shears had been used to remove wool from sheep for generations before she was born. I seem to recall that Roan’s version was smaller and had a different grip—more an improvement than anything else. And she didn’t invent pottery glaze, merely concocted variations. She also created a leg brace that summer, but it didn’t work. Not everything she thought of did.”

  “And Roan of Rhen was a woman?” Amicus frowned and shook his head, as if this was the most suspect thing of all. “That’s not believable. How could a woman—especially in those days—have the capacity to—”

  “To think? To observe? To notice that something round rolls? Or realize that if you notched the butt of the drill stick and pulled it against the bow’s string, it would fly? Honestly, the part I’m stunned by is why it took so long. I guess it took a person like Roan who had both the curiosity and the time.”

  Amicus folded his arms, appearing unconvinced.

  “Amicus, Roan was my aunt. Not actually my mother’s sister, but practically. The woman taught me to read.”

  Amicus raised a brow.

  “Still don’t believe me, do you?” Nolyn asked, then shrugged. “Something I’ve learned about people, both human and Fhrey, is that they hate having long-held beliefs challenged by facts, even about stupid things. Once you get something settled in your head, it becomes comfortable and difficult to dislodge.” Nolyn took a sip of beer. The second mouthful tasted better than the first. “No one likes to admit they’re wrong, even if they are just agreeing with something someone else told them.”

  “Hold on . . .” Amicus thought a moment. “Is that what happened between you and Sephryn? Were you stubborn about something stupid?”

  Having only recently returned to the world of sun and air from the depths of discomfort, Nolyn’s head wasn’t as clear as he’d like, and it sounded as if he’d missed something. “What? How did you get there? We were talking about Roan.”

  “And then you started this whole thing about people being stupid and stubborn. Which made no sense unless it was already on your mind, maybe something you felt guilty about.”

  “And you settled on my relationship with Sephryn?”

  Amicus narrowed his eyes as he studied the prince. “Uh-huh. Riley has a girl in Vernes who’s in love with him, but he’s not with her; Jerel left his childhood sweetheart to join the legion. Myth brags about having an entire collection of ladies in the wings, and believe it or not, Smirch is married. Even Everett pines for the girl on his neighbor’s farm. But in all the years I’ve served with them, I honestly couldn’t tell you the name of any of those women. I’ve only known you now for eight days, but I’ve heard you speak of Sephryn so often that I feel like I know her. Only two things can cause that: love and guilt. Given that most of the last eight days have consisted of fighting or running for our lives—not exactly the sort of moments one takes the time to share—I’m guessing it has to be both.”

  “That’s a lot to conclude from the mention of a name.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s the tone, the way you talk about her, the look in your eye. My father taught me how to read body language. Damn helpful in a fight.” Amicus grinned. “So what happened?”

  “What do you mean?” Nolyn gulped the last of the beer and looked at the bottom of the empty cup.

  “Between you and this girl.”

  “Girl?” Nolyn rolled his eyes. “Oh, she’d love that. Sephryn is eight hundred and forty-nine years and four months old. I doubt girl suits her.”

  “See, right there. I can guarantee you that Jerel, Everett, and Riley can’t tell me how many years and months their women have lived. I doubt Smirch even knows his wife’s birthday. So come on, tell me. What happened?”

  “Can’t you see I’m struggling with seasickness? Did your father also teach you a lack of compassion?”

  “Oh . . . that bad, eh? You must have done something truly awful. Did she catch you with another woman?”

  “No.”

  “Another man?” He grinned.

  Nolyn looked at his empty cup and frowned as if it had betrayed him. “We had a fight, about a year ago, and I’ve not seen her since.”

  “About what?”

  “She wanted me to be something I’m not. She’s the Director of the Imperial Council. Been trying to improve the lives of humans under my father’s rule for generations, but he refuses to listen to the council’s suggestions. He promised he would, and supposedly the First Minister forwards their proposals, but so little has changed that she’s convinced Nyphron lied. She asked me to talk to my father. Sephryn wanted me to convince him to attend the council meetings. I refused.”

  “Thought so.” Amicus smiled. He was doing a lot of that, and it made Nolyn feel he was losing a contest. Why he thought of their conversation as a competition, he had no idea—except that everything with Amicus felt like combat.

  Nolyn lifted his back off the hull to glare at the First Spear. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s just that before, when you mentioned the discussion about the Citizen’s Charter, you said the two of you had a lot to drink, as if you later believed it had been a bad idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t that. It’s a great idea. Asking me to speak to my father was the problem. What she didn’t know—still doesn’t—is that my father hates me—always has.”

  “And you don’t want her finding out you’re afraid of him, right?”

  “You’re really sort of a bastard, aren’t you?” Nolyn asked.

  “I kill people for a living. What do you expect?”

  The imperial warship Stryker had no private accommodations aboard, not a single bed, hammock, or chest. Personal gear was stuffed into the three-foot gap over the heads of the upper oarsmen. Each night, a heavy rope was used to pull the ship ashore, providing room for the men to sleep. The sailors and one tier of oarsmen did the heavy work of landing the vessel, but the task to secure the beach fell to the soldiers. Along the Estee River, that hadn’t been a problem since there were established safe areas with enough depth that the boat could be rowed to shore. But once they reached the sea, the process of beaching the Stryker became more difficult. In the open expanse, it was impossible to know what dangers awaited them on shore. Wisdom dictated that a landing had to be deemed safe before the ship maneuvered into the surf. For those tasked to find out, they needed to decide whether to swim with thirty pounds of armor or venture into a potential ambush carrying just a sword.

  Fear illuminated the faces of the warship’s soldiers as they debated which bits of armor to leave behind. Choosing was a game of chance. Either they drowned from the weight of metal, were slaughtered for lack of it, or nothing at all happened except a harrowing bath.


  Amicus relieved them of that burden by volunteering himself, and several members of the Seventh Sik-Aux, for the dangerous detail. He selected Riley Glot, Azuriah Myth, and Jerel DeMardefeld, all of whom opted to swim to shore wearing just their breechcloths and taking only their swords. Amicus opted for a dagger.

  “You sure about this?” Nolyn asked as the First Spear stripped.

  Amicus grinned. “Are you kidding? This will be fun.”

  There was a whimsical twinkle in his eyes that was repeated in the faces of those prepping beside him. The members of the Seventh Sik-Aux were not the types to sit idle on deck and watch the coast drift by. That was as much their cup of tea as a cup of tea. These men drank hohura straight from the horn and roared with the burn.

  “Will you do me the honor of watching my weapons, sir?” Amicus asked, slipping his dagger into a makeshift wrist sheath. “They are . . . important to me.”

  Nodding, Nolyn noticed a tattoo. Skin markings were not unusual in the legion. Often, they depicted a stylized sword, a fist, a rose, or perhaps thorns wrapping a forearm. The most common was a legion insignia, but Amicus didn’t have the Seventh’s famous boar symbol. He had but one tattoo, an unbroken ring of runes that circled his body at chest level.

  Nolyn was still staring at the tattoo as all four dived off the side of the ship. Only a skeleton crew remained at their posts, keeping the Stryker from getting too close to the cresting waves; the rest crowded the gunwale to watch. Four bare backs glistened in the light of the setting sun, breaching the dark blue like dolphins until they reached the frothing whitecaps and rode them in. Watching from the security of the deck, flanked by Smirch and Mirk, Nolyn saw the joy of the swim and regretted not going.

  The emperor’s son . . . he’s one of them now.

  He wasn’t. By virtue of a birth that gave him near immortality and undeserved prestige, Nolyn could never truly be one of them, but he wished he could. Everyone came into the world with Everett-like innocence, but time burned it out, and his flame had been lit for nearly a millennium. He had loved and lost more friends than he could remember. They came and went with the swift regularity of leaves on trees. He knew he could love these dolphin-men racing one another to the beach, wasting air by calling out taunts even as they approached what could be their deaths. He could love them as he loved life itself because they were life—an existence lived as it ought to be: swift and brilliant, careless and courageous. They were shooting stars, sparks from a campfire, a first touch, and a final kiss. Fleeting moments of beauty made all the more wondrous by their brief nature.