Nolyn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “I’m fine,” Nolyn lied. He felt as he always did just before combat. Every sense on alert, his heart beating at double time, a faint sheen of sweat rising on his skin. If he didn’t think he needed every advantage possible, he would have guzzled every drop from the decanter.

  “Fine? Really? I doubt that.” Nyphron grinned and threw his legs up over the arm of the chair, letting his feet dangle. “Tell me, did you enjoy fighting the gobs in the Durat?”

  “What?” Nolyn asked, confused.

  “When I was with the Galantians, we had the time of our lives up there in the mountains. Every crack, crevasse, and fissure held adventure. Of course, most of them also contained ghazel.” He sighed, reflectively. There was a look on his father’s face and a tone in his voice that Nolyn had never experienced before: affable, ironic, wit-laced, and filled with a dark humor, this sort of exchange was usually reserved for the ranks of bonded warriors. “There’s just something so exhilarating about that cold mountain air and the way goblin blood steams off a wet blade, I just—”

  “Are you seriously reminiscing about the good old days?”

  Nyphron raised his cup of wine. “Absolutely. Here’s to those glory days of grand hazards and life-affirming risks. You’ve heard your mother’s stories dozens of times, but you’ve never heard mine. And my tales are far more exciting. Like the time when—”

  “Stop it!” Nolyn demanded. “I didn’t come here for stories.”

  His father lost his grin and went back to swirling his drink. “No? Why not? I haven’t seen you in centuries. Seems about time we got caught up, don’t you think?”

  “No.” Nolyn was surprised at his own frustration, which bloomed into full-on anger. “We are not friends.”

  “But we could be.”

  “No, we can’t. It’s impossible because you’re a self-centered, egotistical bastard who always hated me and my mother. You drove her to an early grave and ordered my death.”

  “Back to that, are we?” Nyphron’s brows knitted, and his lips pulled into a sidelong frown. “Where’d you get this from, anyway? And incidentally, I’m the legitimate and recognized son of Zephyron, so I can’t actually be a bastard. And for the record, I never hated either of you.”

  “You’re lying.” Nolyn waved his arms at the walls. “Look at this place. It was built in two parts. A wing for me and Persephone and separate quarters for you. That’s not the way married people live.”

  Nyphron took a sip of wine. “Your mother and I didn’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “What kind?”

  “Romantic.”

  “Then what sort did you have?”

  “One of mutual respect and admiration and devotion to an ideal—the notion that we were perfectly suited to make the world a better place.”

  Nolyn let out an exasperated, half-choked, bitter laugh.

  “Don’t believe me, eh?” Nyphron looked into his cup as he continued to swirl it. “Tell me, then, why would a self-centered, egotistical bastard like myself name this city after a woman I supposedly hated?”

  “Malcolm made you do it.” Nolyn used the name like a magic talisman, and like all magical items, he had no idea how it worked or what it might do.

  “Malcolm?” Nyphron grinned. “Now there’s an echo from the past.”

  “He visited Mother just before she died, eight hundred and thirty-three years ago. Right after that, you dedicated the city in her name.”

  Nyphron responded with a smug smile. “If he was here that day, I didn’t see him. He and I haven’t talked since . . . well, since before I became emperor. Besides, Malcolm never ordered me to do anything. He knew better than that. I don’t respond well to orders.”

  “In the Battle of Grandford, he ordered you to shroud the archers. And later, he forced you to become fane even though you wanted to slaughter all the Erivan Fhrey.”

  “He didn’t order me, or even so much as demand. He asked and was quite polite with his requests. And”—Nyphron nodded—“he was right on both occasions. He told me I would see it his way eventually. So I suppose he was right about that. But I named the city after your mother because she deserved it. She lived a long time, for a human, but not long enough. I didn’t want her memory to be lost to history. She was already overlooked by many, her accomplishments forgotten. Persephone made this city possible as much as I did. She was the one who picked the spot. In your mother’s day, this was just a grassy bluff overlooking the Urum, an exposed cliff of flint shards, which were used as knives and to start fires. She considered it a place where dreams could be realized, a spot we could build something lasting. The dwarfs disagreed. They complained about the site, said the ground was bad. Apparently, it’s hollow. The city sits above limestone caverns and an underground river or lake. I forget the specifics, but your mother wouldn’t be deterred. She insisted on building here, and she would have no other.” He nodded again. “This is her city. She’d always said it was the people’s, but she’s the one who made it rise and deserved the recognition. That’s why I named it after her. Persephone’s City—in the Fhrey: Percepliquis.”

  “And me?” Nolyn asked.

  “What about you?”

  “You hardly spoke to me when I was a child.”

  Nyphron shrugged. “I’m not good with kids. Fhrey have so few. We aren’t accustomed to them. I left you to your mother because she was the expert. That’s how we did things, she and I—each to our own strengths. And we were honest with each other . . . as I’m being with you now.”

  “Uh-huh,” Nolyn said dismissively. “And when she died, do you remember how you consoled me? Allow me to refresh your memory. You ordered me stripped, forced me to be tattooed, then sent me north with the First Legion to fight and nearly die in the Grenmorian War.”

  “Exactly.” Nyphron dropped his feet to the floor, leaned forward, and nodded proudly. “Nothing is better for grief than killing. I knew you’d be devastated by her loss. Nothing I could say—nothing anyone could say—would make it better. You were going to be raging with anger and hate. What you needed was a way to let that out. Slaying giants was the answer. And you did well.”

  Nolyn had been more than angry; he wanted to fight, desired blood. It took a whole year to exorcise his demons, to drown them in lakes of giants’ blood.

  “And after? You also sent me to the Durat to fight the goblins,” Nolyn accused.

  “Sure,” Nyphron grinned. “Figured you earned a reward.”

  “A reward? How is that a reward?”

  Nyphron’s eyes brightened in memory. “Best days of my life were spent killing goblins in the Durat.” Nyphron smiled broadly as he looked up at the ceiling. “Gods, those were fine times: basking in the sun at the top of the world, butchering the little buggers in their holes, fighting desperate battles against overwhelming odds, drinking ourselves stupid at night and roaring like animals at the moon. Never since have I felt as alive or as free. And you can only do that when you’re young, unattached, unfettered, and unencumbered by the truths that come later—the weight that anchors you to the ground. Only the carefree can fly. That was my gift to you, a youth well lived.”

  “I nearly died.”

  “Great, wasn’t it?” His father pointed at him with the hand that held the cup.

  At that moment, Nolyn hated his father more than ever. Not because Nyphron was wrong, but because the emperor might be right. Those years had always been poisoned by the belief that his father had sentenced him to war as punishment for crimes he never committed. A blanket of resentment had smothered the joy out of every achievement, every friendship, every starry night spent on a ledge observing the glory of the world. Fear, misery, death, loss, and regret had scarred him, but he had also known beauty, kindness, love, and wonder. The lows were deep, but the highs dizzying. Life after the Durat continued with pinnacles and valleys, but the range was muted, dulled to a hazy, vague boredom. Accepting his father’s excuse threatened to leave Nolyn with a hole where his hate used to be
.

  “And the salt mines? Was that also a reward?”

  “No, but by then I felt it was time for you to do real work.”

  “How was that real work?”

  Nyphron stared at him, stunned. “Are you not aware how vital salt is to the empyre? All the gold, diamonds, and silver are nothing compared with a constant flow of salt. We can’t live without it. Air, water, food, and salt are the basics everyone needs to survive. A growing empyre needs a lot, and there’s not much to be had. When I assigned you to that post, we had just acquired rights to that quarry from the Kingdom of Belgreig. When Rain was king, I could trust them, but the rulers since then have grown increasingly deceitful. I anticipated problems, and I sent you to guard this empyre’s greatest treasure.”

  “Is that why I spent more than five hundred years as the assistant administrator of the mine?”

  “That was genius, if I do say so myself.” Nyphron smiled. “No one would bribe or try to blackmail an assistant who is also the emperor’s son. No advantage in that. You didn’t have the power to make decisions, but you could ruin a businessman’s day if you reported anything to me. No administrator would dare accept a bribe or engage in shady dealings with the son of the emperor watching his every move. And no one was stupid enough to try to kill you after your performance in two separate wars. Your tenure at that mine kept the empyre safe.”

  Nolyn stared at his father, unsure what to think. He was angry, and afraid that if given time to reflect, he might lose that edge. He glanced at the doors again. “You talk a good game, but I can’t trust anything you say. So, are you going to have me executed for treason? Or are we going to fight?”

  His father smiled again and shrugged. “I suppose that’s what we’re deciding, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Children of Legends

  Sephryn stepped into her house. Closing the door behind her, she fell against it and slid to the floor. She was shaking, and she pulled her knees up to her chin. She started to rock.

  Oh, dear Mother of All, what am I going to do?

  Stealing an old horn had been one thing, but murdering Nyphron was unthinkable.

  I can’t kill the emperor.

  The very notion was insane. Not only was it horribly wrong, it was also completely impossible.

  He’s a living legend for two different races.

  The universe would never allow someone like her to destroy someone like him, even if she wanted to—which she didn’t. Nyphron was a renowned warrior and a full-blooded Fhrey, the leader of the famous Galantians. One of three things would happen: He would swat her attack away like a bug, his armor would deflect the arrow, or most likely, he’d catch the projectile and laugh.

  I can’t kill the emperor.

  Sephryn began to repeat the words in her head in an attempt to chase away any other ideas that might seek to enter. Citizens of Percepliquis did something similar on New Year’s Day. The entire population of the city came out and rang bells and hammered pots to frighten demons away. Sephryn’s fiend was already planted in her head, and she couldn’t let it take root.

  I can’t kill the emperor. I can’t kill the emperor. I can’t kill the emperor.

  The words became a chant, a magic shield to ward off evil. Words, however, were a weak defense against thoughts that had so many places in which to seep in.

  The Voice knows about the bow. Has he known about my legacy all along? Was this part of his plan from the start, or was he listening when Errol and I spoke to Augustine Brinkle?

  Sephryn thought she had sensed something, but that might have been her imagination. And yet, it was absurd to think that the Voice wouldn’t have been present for that conversation.

  Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t. Does it matter?

  Her gaze started to rise toward the hearth, and she forced her sight back to the floor.

  No! I can’t kill the emperor. I can’t kill the emperor. I can’t kill the emperor.

  She heard the sound of a baby crying, muffled and distant. The chugging, huffing, desperate whimper of an infant in discomfort filtered through her chants.

  Am I hearing that through my ears, or is it in my head? Is it outside, or is it Nurgya?

  Rocking her back hard against the door, she couldn’t tell. The Voice might be allowing Nurgya’s cries to reach her through whatever conduit he used to speak to her. It also might be a fake, an imitation, or even another child used to prod her into action. And there was a good chance it was just a nearby baby awake in the night and crying to be fed.

  Sephryn slapped her palms to her ears and held her head as she rocked in torment.

  I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my mind. But I’m not going to kill the emperor. Not going to kill the emperor. Not going to kill the emperor.

  Her hands muffled the sound, but she couldn’t snuff it out. As if in response, the child’s cries grew more urgent. The huffing whimpers shifted to louder, frantic wails.

  “Nurgya,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry, baby. Please don’t cry.”

  I need a new thought—a new thought—a new thought.

  One came to her.

  Why is Nolyn back? Does he know about his son? How could he?

  Sephryn was exhausted. She’d been up nearly a full day and night, and she hadn’t been sleeping well before that. The anxiety of the robbery had kept her awake. Sleep deprived, she found it difficult to think, to judge.

  Not going to kill the emperor. Not going to kill the emperor.

  With each chant, her back hit the door. It clapped against the frame, adding a ka-thap, ka-thap to the repeating rhythm of her thoughts. Ka-thap. Not going to kill the emperor. Ka-thap. Not going to kill the emperor.

  The sound of the crying child grew more desperate. Sephryn crushed her ears with her hands but couldn’t silence the wails.

  Ka-thap. Not going to kill the emperor. Ka-thap. Not going to kill the emperor.

  The floor was cold, and her back hurt from being slammed against the door.

  “Can you do it?” Augustine Brinkle had asked her. “Can you shoot like your mother?”

  Ka-thap. Not going to kill the emperor. Ka-thap. Not going to kill the emperor.

  Sephryn dug her nails into the sides of her head, squeezing the flat of her palms as hard as she could against her ears.

  “I bet you can. I’m sure you’re incredible.”

  The baby was shrieking by then, screaming in the night. Why won’t anyone help that poor kid? What’s wrong with its mother? Doesn’t she care? Doesn’t she hear?

  Sephryn realized she was looking across the room at the fireplace. She focused on the stack of wood, at the hearth utensils, and the space where the poker used to be. She couldn’t stop herself; her sight drifted up. She saw the mantel, and just above it was . . .

  “The daughter of Moya the Magnificent, who is also endowed with the Fhrey blood of an Instarya father, would be amazing.”

  Audrey.

  The bow was long and made from the dark wood of Magda, the oracle tree of Dahl Rhen that had told Persephone how to save mankind. The ancient tree had been killed by lightning sent by the Miralyith, splitting it wide. Roan of Rhen took the heart of Magda and fashioned it into the first bow, a thing believed at the time to be magic. Moya had named the bow Audrey, after her own mother.

  “I bet you can. I’m sure you’re incredible.”

  The bow had no string, merely an elegant curve and a stunning grain pattern that had deepened with age and the oil and sweat from her mother’s hands.

  The baby is crying. Am I going to just sit here? I must do something. If I don’t, Nurgya will die. And that can’t happen, not while . . .

  Shadows lost their grip on the room as dawn broke. A hazy light entered the open windows, highlighting the elegant, curved wood of the bow. That weapon was just as much a legend as Nyphron. It had destroyed Balgargarath, securing weapons so that a desperate race of people could rise against their oppressors. It had killed Udgar, cle
aring the path for Persephone’s rule and the salvation of every man, woman, and child on the face of Elan.

  Sephryn recalled Kendel, the man who had died on the street, and the words of his grieving mother. “Why can’t you stop this? You’ve been our hope. We’ve believed in you. Trusted you.”

  “I want to see them punished when he’s crowned,” Arvis had said.

  “But I don’t think you’ll get the chance. Emperor Nyphron is just a little over seventeen hundred. He’ll likely live another five hundred years.”

  Sephryn had stopped slamming against the door, and the room grew quiet. Even the baby had stopped crying. Silence—eerie and tense—filled her room.

  The emperor was Fhrey. He was from another time, a different reality, an age when humans were Rhunes and Fhrey were gods. Nyphron would never change the laws. Under his rule, men and women would forever be second class. Sephryn’s mother had fought to free her race from the yoke of the Fhrey, but Moya’s war had been left unfinished. The Fhrey still ruled and would do so forever. Unless . . .

  “Why can’t you stop this?”

  Moya’s bow had killed so many Fhrey.

  “I bet you can.”

  With the death of just one more, everything would change.

  “I’m sure you’re incredible.”

  With Nolyn on the throne, she could help him bring about Persephone’s vision for true peace between men and Fhrey.

  “The daughter of Moya the Magnificent, who is also endowed with the Fhrey blood of an Instarya father, would be amazing.”

  “I understand,” Nyphron told Nolyn after taking a sip of wine. “I felt much the same way about my father. Zephyron was the commander of all of Avrlyn, the head of the Instarya, but I received no benefit from being his son. Quite the opposite. He treated me like an unwelcome dog. Gave me the worst assignments. I thought he hated me. I wasn’t the only one. The entire garrison at Alon Rhist witnessed his ill treatment and sympathized.” Nyphron sighed, grimaced, and then in a whisper he said, “I was forced to rake out animal pens, and I did it regularly. No one did that—no Instarya, at least. That was the task of slaves. But when I was young, I actually shoveled manure. I stood ankle-deep in filth, and I cursed Zephyron until the pigs blushed. Couldn’t understand it. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve such treatment.”