Nolyn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Yes, it is!” Arvis snapped, as the fire of rage that had toppled a pillar of rats reignited. “I didn’t steal anything. The Bakers took her from me!”

  The woman stopped and appeared confused. “Her? The child in your arms is a boy,” the woman said.

  Arvis hesitated as unwanted memories descended on her with a force heavy enough to crush. “No . . . wait . . . that’s not right . . . they didn’t take her. I . . . I . . .”

  Step, lurch, step, lurch.

  “I didn’t have food for her. I couldn’t feed either of us.”

  Step, lurch, step, lurch.

  “Don’t you see?” Arvis pleaded with the woman.

  Step, lurch, step, lurch.

  “She would have died. We both would have. I did the best—the only thing—I could for my beautiful baby girl. They wanted a child and couldn’t have one. They promised to keep her safe and feed her well. And they said they would give me free bread for the rest of my life. But . . . but they didn’t. Not after I forgot.”

  Step, lurch, step, lurch.

  “That was after he beat me—beat me real bad—and my head.” Arvis pointed to the scar as best she could while holding the torch. “I couldn’t remember things after that. But I didn’t forget the bread—the innocent little loaf that I had traded.” She looked at the bundle in the crook of her arm.

  “This baby isn’t that one. It’s Sephryn’s. The great god Ferrol came—he chose me! I witnessed wonders—and miracles. He needed my help, and I gave of myself freely. He told me to splatter the nursery in pig’s blood, and paint strange markings on the wall, then he asked me to take Nurgya and keep him alive until Founder’s Day. He said that was when they would bestow our salvation. And they are coming. You can hear them, can’t you? They clack and clatter.”

  “I know you,” Arvis said. “You’re Mica DeBrus. You live with Sephryn.”

  The old woman, who by then had moved up close to Arvis, showed a sad smile. “Not anymore.”

  Arvis didn’t see the knife until it was too late.

  Step, lurch, step, lurch.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Six Toes In

  “How old is this stuff?” Errol asked, picking up a scroll, looking it over, then tossing it back into a cubbyhole. A tiny puff of motes issued forth and fell through the single shaft of moonlight like fairy dust.

  “Can’t you stop fidgeting? And you put that back in the wrong spot. It belongs in the container right below,” the monk said sternly, as if they were in his home and those were his things the thief was poking through.

  “Oh, good thing you told me, Seymour. I’m sure the people who never come here will be filled with worry when they can’t find that rotting piece of parchment they don’t know exists.”

  Sephryn, Errol, and Seymour were holed up in the records hall and had been since sunset. The moon was full—as it was each Founder’s Day eve—because the holiday was designated as the day immediately following the first full moon of spring. Although the moonlight wasn’t bright enough to read by, the beams managed to spill through the open door and down the steps, providing enough illumination so they could just make out the stacks, steps, and dust.

  The monk sat quietly in the pool of light at the bottom of the stairs, whereas Errol wandered the shadows of the stacks, peering into nooks that overflowed with boxes, barrels, and what appeared to be a wine rack. The stacks themselves were crammed with scrolls and loose sheets. Sephryn perched near the door, resting a small bag on her lap. From her seat on the top step, she watched the course of moonlight track across the courtyard and waited for the signal that would call them to action—the midnight bell.

  “Perhaps you should take up reading,” Seymour said. “These are ancient records dating back to the early days of the empyre. You’d be amazed by what you can discover in old books. They’re really quite enlightening.”

  Errol continued to slink about, peeking into the various nooks and cubbyholes with a miserable grimace. “I don’t have the slightest interest.”

  Seymour looked at the thief and frowned while shaking his head. “Which puts you on par with most of the simpletons living today.”

  “Really?” Errol turned with a smirk of surprised amusement. “You think I’m the dumb one?” He laughed. “Given the present membership of our intrepid band, I don’t think I’m the one lacking intelligence. What do you know about anything?”

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  Errol, apparently bored with Seymour, turned back to his exploration with the grim fascination one might find on the face of a child poking a dead frog with a stick.

  While the men bickered, Sephryn worried about her son and wondered whether she could have handled the situation better. She hadn’t demanded evidence that Nurgya was still alive, because it wasn’t as if she were negotiating with a thief in a dark alley. Only recently had Sephryn determined she was dealing with a Miralyith rather than a god. While better than facing a divine being, she knew little about the Fhrey Artists.

  During the Great War, the Miralyith were the ruling tribe that fought against Nyphron and Persephone. That was why the emperor hated magic. Artists had always been his enemies. After the war, Nyphron decreed a death sentence for anyone who crossed the forbidden river that divided the Fhrey homeland from the rest of the empyre, so whoever kidnapped Nurgya took a big risk crossing over—but why?

  The answer seemed almost too obvious.

  “Most of this is pointless tallies and useless reports,” Errol said. “Inventory from a hundred years ago. What value could you possibly expect to find in here?”

  “Writing, as we know it,” Seymour replied, “was invented before the empyre was founded. This room could contain some of the earliest records.”

  The first toll of the bell rang out, hollow and haunting.

  “It’s midnight,” Sephryn declared, her voice sounding ominous even to herself. “It’s Founder’s Day.”

  “You are aware that not everyone is fast asleep by the late bell?” Errol said. “I’m sure you normally are.” Errol tilted his head at the monk. “Him, too. But it’s a common fallacy to imagine all people are just like yourself. Easy mistake to make. I, for one, can testify to the fact that many sleep most of the day and have their first meal as the sun sets. For them, this is like your midday.”

  “I doubt anyone living in the palace keeps to a thief’s schedule,” Sephryn said.

  “But what are the hours of an emperor? Do you know?”

  Sephryn admitted, if only to herself, that she had no idea. “Do you have a point? Are you suggesting we wait longer?”

  Errol considered the question, looking around as if his present circumstance had a bearing on the subject. “No. For all the gods’ sake, let’s be done with this before I go mad.”

  Sephryn placed her hands on Seymour’s shoulders. “Remember, you wait here. Do nothing. The Voice won’t be able to harm you within these walls—won’t even be able to find you. If everything goes well, I’ll return. If things go badly—please, cover yourself in the Orinfar and disappear. Go back to Dibben or wherever, and never speak about this to anyone. You’ve risked far too much already for a person you barely know. If this is the manner of all monks, I pray your brotherhood spreads.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  As far as Sephryn knew, there was only one guard stationed inside the courtyard. He had no designated post and simply wandered the grounds. In a hundred years, no one had ever caused trouble in the palace. The guards, wall, and gate had grown into decorations like the ivy, but the men still carried swords, and she guessed they knew how to use them.

  Sephryn followed Errol along the flagstones to the pillared porch and up the steps to the front door of the emperor’s home. Not nearly as grand as the Aguanon or even the Gem Fortress, the palace was rumored to have been a rushed job, cut short because of Nyphron’s desire to move in. Another story insisted that Persephone—being a simple country girl—disdained grandeur and insisted their home be h
umble. Sephryn knew Persephone had grown up in a dahl more modest than any present-day farm, but the whole country-girl mystique was more than absurd—it was insulting. The woman had been a clan chieftain, and later the keenig who ruled every human soul. Whatever the reason, the palace was as humble as a two-winged, four-story, white-marble-pillared building could be.

  Errol had stopped at the door. While crouching to examine the lock, the door opened and hit him full in the face.

  A young woman with a bucket stared at him. “What are you doing?” she asked, with the distinct note of an accusation in her tone.

  Errol sprang up, one hand to his head. He opened his mouth, but for once, Sephryn managed to speak first. “Opella, how are you?”

  The wash-girl looked over and spotted Sephryn. The moment she did, suspicion shifted to confusion. “Oh—your ladyship! I—” She looked back at Errol, who remained frozen like a soldier halted at attention. “Is he with you?” she asked quietly as if Errol wouldn’t be able to hear.

  Errol looked at her, and for the first time, she saw that arrogant mask melt into concern.

  “Yes,” Sephryn replied, cheerfully. “This is Mathias Hagger.” She pulled the name from the deep recesses of her memory. Someone her mother used to know. “He’s doing some work for me. He was buckling his boot, and you nearly took him out with the door.”

  “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “That’s all right, dear,” Sephryn soothed. “You didn’t happen to see my beige scarf when you were cleaning up, did you? I’m sure I left it in my office. I just can’t sleep till I find it. It was a gift.”

  “Oh, of course!” Any lingering lines of befuddlement faded from the girl’s face, and she smiled. “Prince Nolyn gave it to you, didn’t he? And I can see why you can’t be without it tonight, but I didn’t see it when I was up there.” Opella moved around Errol to dump her dirty water.

  “That’s all right,” Sephryn said, puzzled, but not about to chitchat. “I think I know where it is.”

  “Okay, but be careful. I just washed the floor, and it’s still wet. It gets slick.”

  They entered the palace. The entrance hall looked entirely different at night. Sconce lamps illuminated the chamber, while the tall windows were black. Opella returned, then waited. Clearly, she intended to follow them.

  Sephryn stared at Errol, giving him a firm and—she hoped—telling look. The thief had always suggested he was intelligent, and she hoped it hadn’t all been a swindler’s act. “Opella?” Errol said. His hand still cupped to his forehead. “You hit me awfully hard with that door.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s just . . . I mean . . . I’m feeling faint, and I think I might be bleeding. Is there somewhere I could sit or lie down? I—” Errol staggered, put his back against the wall, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.

  “Oh, dear!” Opella said. “Let me go get someone who—”

  “No—no, that won’t be necessary. I’m just a bit—I merely need a moment. And perhaps if it isn’t too much trouble, could I have a cup of water?”

  “You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “Just a chair and a glass of water, please.”

  “Oh, yes. Right away.” Opella rushed off.

  Errol glared at Sephryn. “I warned you not to make assumptions about others.”

  “Who knew we had to account for wash-girl hours.”

  “Make it quick and don’t forget to grab Bartholomew.”

  No lights burned upstairs, leaving the residence a geometric painting of elongated moonlight on marble. She kept to the shadows and was cautious with her movements. Sephryn clutched the rolled-up bag in her fist, her heart picking up speed. She’d never stolen anything but a kiss, and even that hadn’t gone well. The only law she’d ever broken was when she protested the treatment of humans—an act in which she’d felt justified and proud to be caught doing. She didn’t feel that way now. What she was about to do was nothing less than a simple, ugly theft. She wasn’t just crossing a line; she was performing a running jump. If caught, she could lose her hands, or since she was stealing from the palace even her head. Sephryn had often wondered at those who faced such severe punishments. She didn’t understand how they could risk such high stakes, until now.

  “It’s a common fallacy to imagine all people are just like yourself.”

  Errol, she determined, had been wrong. Everyone was the same and only the situation made a difference. What good were her hands, or even her life, if she allowed her child to die?

  Moving across the tile flooring and up the marble steps, she didn’t make a sound.

  Sephryn was good at being quiet. Mica had complained that Sephryn had a nasty habit of startling her one-foot-and-six-toes-into-the-grave on numerous occasions after putting Nurgya to bed. Sephryn apologized, but it still happened. After one jolt too many, Mica threatened to leave and went to the extravagant length of packing her things. The old woman had nowhere to go and not much to put in her single canvas bag. After that, Sephryn promised to stop and she had. Yet as Sephryn crept along, she realized she had done Mica no favors, and the bag Sephryn held in her hands—the one in which she hoped to conceal the horn—had been Mica’s.

  Sephryn reached the door where she’d once encountered Illim. She stared at it, holding her breath. She looked up the corridor and then down. No light, no sound. She was alone. When she raised the latch, the door drifted in a bit under its own weight. Sephryn gave it a light push, and it swung farther. She peered inside. The interior was illuminated by a light, but it burned in a room far down a corridor.

  “But what are the hours of an emperor?”

  She waited, listening. No sound, not even heavy breathing.

  Then Sephryn grimaced at another possibility: the awkwardness of interrupting the emperor if he wasn’t alone in his bed. Fhrey were known to be less traditional in their intimate habits, but also to have less interest in carnal relations—their long lives caused them to outgrow its pleasures the same way adults lost interest in leapfrog and somersaults. Still, given he shared his chambers with Illim, finding them together wasn’t impossible. An accidental interruption, and the subsequent embarrassment, might be fatal.

  He’ll execute me for certain, no ceremony necessary. Nyphron will exercise his judgment and punishment right here, then haul my body out with the rest of the palace trash.

  She moved slowly and more silently than a cat toward the stone imperfection that she hoped was the gemlocked vault. She knelt down and let her fingers run over the surface, top to bottom, learning absolutely nothing. Then she glanced back over her shoulder toward the faint light coming from deeper in.

  The reason I so deftly managed to scare Mica six-toes-in was partly because of my Fhrey heritage. Not every hound was a born hunter, but all of them had keen noses, the same basic traits. A similar observation could be made regarding Fhrey. Agility, keen eyesight, and acute hearing were dominant traits just like her ability to move silently. Being a full-blooded Fhrey, Nyphron had to be even better, so he could appear without warning at any minute. She pictured the emperor of the world with bed-hair, wearing only an untied robe and a scowl.

  She reached into her purse, which was tied to her belt. An ever-present part of her attire, the small leather pouch with the drawstring contained her life savings and an ugly, rough-cut ruby the size of an egg. She pulled on the strings, but the mouth remained stubbornly closed. Of all the times to be annoying! She untangled the string, repeatedly looking over her shoulder. Then she opened the bag and drew out the stone.

  Here goes.

  Sephryn held the ruby out to the wall.

  Nothing happened.

  With her other hand, she pressed on the area where there was a faint depression.

  Nothing.

  She began to move the stone about, sliding it along the surface.

  The emperor never put Bartholomew in the box! An avalanche of doubt followed, including the idea that Bri
nkle had made a mistake, and the vault wasn’t a gemlocked box after all. Why did we even think that? Or did Brinkle lie? If the dwarf went to Nyphron and told him the whole thing, then any minute now—

  Click.

  The sound was muffled and indistinct, and yet, she heard it.

  Oh, please, let that be it!

  Her hands were shaking.

  Once more, Sephryn looked back toward the distant flickering glow, as if it were the den of a dragon. She had marked the extent of the light’s reach and watched to see if it changed, if it had moved. It hadn’t, and there was no sound from the bowels of the residence.

  Again, she pressed the wall, and it popped open and moved as if on hinges. The interior looked like a cupboard, but in place of dishes was a medley of oddities. A black-bladed sword etched with symbols; a simple golden cup; a beaded mask; an old, battered helmet; a dark bottle; a pair of gloves; a green, jewel-encrusted egg; and an old ram’s horn.

  Sephryn carefully drew out the horn. She expected it to be heavy but found it as light as a hollow gourd. Stuffing it into Mica’s bag, she cinched it closed and clutched the bundle to her chest. Then she removed the egg and put it and the ruby into her purse.

  Footsteps.

  Sephryn’s heart stopped.

  The steps came quickly, as if someone was moving at a trot—not from inside, but out.

  Sephryn closed the vault and, as fast as she could, found and threw the bolt on the inside of the chamber door, locking it.

  From outside came the sound of feet sliding to a stop and then a knock. The noise was so loud that she jumped. She turned and faced the illuminated corridor behind her and froze. The knock came again, even louder. Sephryn’s heart skipped as she waited for the emperor or Illim to appear. She imagined one or both marching down the hallway, angry at the late intrusion, then spotting her just stupidly standing there.

  At her feet, light leaked under the hallway door from whatever lantern the visitor held. Twin shadows of feet shifted back and forth nervously. Then the latch jiggled, and Sephryn stopped breathing.