The other man looked doubtful, but he slid the dagger firmly back into its sheath with an audible clack of metal on metal. “Then that would make you his youngest son,” he concluded, his eyebrows lifting briefly in appreciation as he added, “and the one we hear all the stories about. Tell me,” he said as he turned his back and made his way to the side of the desk where he had stood on Nikomedes’ entry to the room, “are they true?”
“First,” Nikomedes said through gritted teeth, “are you Kephus?”
The man snorted, “Yes, I am Kastor Kephus.”
Nodding in satisfaction, Nikomedes glanced hesitantly over his shoulder to see if anyone was eavesdropping on the conversation. Sensing his trepidation, Kephus moved to the door and closed it before gesturing for Nikomedes to be seated opposite him near the desk.
Obliging, Nikomedes settled into the first piece of furniture he had encountered since leaving Blue Fang Pass. For a moment he was struck by just how long he had been isolated from humanity during the long trek to Argos, but he shook the memory from his mind as he focused on the task before him.
“I would prefer if my answer remained between us,” Nikomedes said after a lengthy pause.
Kephus cocked an eyebrow. “I admit my surprise at your request. Though, while I would honor your request, I will not lie—“
Nikomedes held up a forestalling hand. “I would not ask you to do so. I merely wish to have some time before my confirmation of the story—assuming it recounts the event which I suspect you ask after, which involved a Trial of the Deep—becomes public.”
Kephus laced his fingers together and leaned back in his high-backed, well-built chair. “You have my attention,” he said, gesturing for Nikomedes to continue.
Pausing to collect his thoughts and silently replay his well-rehearsed telling of the story—well-rehearsed to himself, and no others, during the journey from Blue Fang Pass—in his head, it was several seconds before he began to tell of the day he took up his brother’s name.
“That is quite a story,” Kastor Kephus declared, leaning back in his chair after having sat forward just a few minutes into the retelling. Nikomedes had spared no detail, doing his best to fully relay his recollection of the day he slew the kraken, and it was clear that Kastor Kephus was impressed.
In truth, even Nikomedes was impressed as he retold the story in its entirety using his own words—a thing he had not done even once, since Felix had taken the liberty to recount the tale over and over and over after taking Nikomedes under his wing. Then, at Blue Fang Pass, Nikomedes had steadfastly refused to share the details of his Trial of the Deep with anyone after answering Kratos’ initial query on the matter. His reticence had done little for his popularity among the Ice Raiders, but that had mattered little to Nikomedes.
“It is my memory of it,” Nikomedes replied, leaning back in the smaller, but similarly well-built chair set across from Kephus’.
Kastor Kephus regarded him silently for a moment before seemingly arriving at a decision. He reached into one of the drawers in his desk and withdrew a small pendant of some kind in a strip of what looked like baleen cord.
He tossed it across the desk and it landed in Nikomedes’ lap. “Does that look familiar?” he asked with a playful note in his voice.
Nikomedes turned the irregular piece of dark, bony material over in his fingers. It was beige and green, with a sharp border between the two colors—
His eyes widened in surprise when he realized what it was. “Where did you get this?”
Kephus shrugged dismissively, “An old friend of mine with a penchant for the dramatic was there the day you killed it. He said pieces of the shell like that one were scattered on the rocks when the basin emptied later that day, though the carcass itself washed out with the tide—or was consumed by something big enough to think of dead kraken as a proper meal,” he added doubtfully. “He gave me one of the handful he found after telling me a tale that was considerably more flamboyant, but also considerably less detailed, than your own account. I had it fashioned into a pendant that I meant to give to my firstborn son…” he explained, his mood darkening as he trailed off into silence.
Nikomedes made to return the pendant to him, but Kephus shook his head.
“You should keep it,” he said, “it’s a fine trophy with a finer tale, and you tell it well.”
“I’ve had…little practice, and hope it can remain that way,” Nikomedes said, hoping his tone, if not his words, would respectfully dissuade any further inquest to that particular subject.
Kephus nodded, “I will not claim to know your reasons, but I can respect them. However, a secret like this isn’t kept for long without bloodshed—bloodshed I cannot abide in Argos as the man charged with keeping the peace within her walls. Now,” he said, holding Nikomedes gaze heavily for a pointed moment before gesturing to the assorted tablets and sheepskin scrolls laid out on the desk, “while I appreciate the diversion from my duties, you can see that I’m a busy man. What can I do for you?”
Nikomedes shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “I wish to join the Argosian guards.”
Kephus cocked an eyebrow incredulously, but Nikomedes saw his eyes narrow briefly in silent contemplation—a gesture which was quickly masked by the other man. “Why?” the other man asked plaintively.
Nikomedes knew from his reaction, and the way he had asked the question, that Kephus already knew why he had come. It was a good sign since it indicated that Kastor Kephus was far from an empty-headed, animal-food-trough wiper. If Kephus was clever enough to see Nikomedes’ plan mere minutes after hearing his tale, then he would be an ally worth having.
“Ah,” Kephus said with a knowing look, “that.”
For a brief moment, Nikomedes wondered if he had just alerted a rival to his true intentions. But when the other man steepled his fingers and leaned back in quiet contemplation, he suspected that particular fear was unfounded.
“It would seem fortune is on your side,” Kephus declared after several minutes of deafening silence. “Assuming, of course, your aim is lower than my own,” he added pointedly.
Nikomedes nodded slowly, knowing that Kephus was declaring his own intention to usurp Hypatios Nykator in order to stand as Protector of Argos. “Given the difference in our age,” Nikomedes confirmed, “that would be a safe assumption. I have no wish to pick over the bones of another’s conquest; I will forge my own path in this life.”
“I’m glad we understand each other,” Kephus said, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before his mood fell noticeably. “Nykator’s men are plentiful, however, and they fancy what you seek to be already well within their domain. In their minds it is only a matter of fighting amongst each other to determine who will win her hand. And this business of your father…” he said doubtfully, cocking his head in thought, “it will not be easy to get past that.
“I passed the Trial of the Deep,” Nikomedes said in a mixture of surprise and anger at Kephus’ suggestion that he might still have to address his father’s shame. “Surely that is the end of it.”
“In a lesser Hold, it would be,” Kephus assured him before adding pointedly, “but neither of us came to a lesser Hold, did we?” He shook his head slowly, and Nikomedes felt his hands balling into fists as his arms rested on the wooden chair’s frame. “But we might be able to maneuver you into position with some careful planning,” the leader of the guard said after a pregnant pause. “Who else knows you are here?”
“I spoke with a roving patrol this morning,” Nikomedes replied, “but told them nothing of my plans. Two guardsmen at the outer wall interviewed me before permitting me entry.”
“How long ago did you enter?” Kephus asked as he began to scribble something down with a piece of charcoal on a blank, wooden slate.
“I came directly here,” Nikomedes explained, “no more than fifteen minutes.”
“Good,” Kephus said approvingly before sliding the wooden slate across the desk, “take this.”
“Commit that name, and the numbers, to memory,” Kephus instructed. “The name belongs to the local magister assigned to Messene and, if you repeat the numbers, it will tell him that I sent you—along with a request for discretion. You must find living kin from your mother’s line and have her attest that you are who you say you are,” he explained as Nikomedes found himself feeling increasingly wary. “Your mother would be best, but a close relation of any kind will suffice—her mother, an older sister of yours, or possibly even a sister of your mother, but no further removed than that.”
When Nikomedes had memorized the name and numbers, he slid the slate back across the desk. “Let me be frank, Kephus: how can I trust you?” Nikomedes asked bluntly. “This could be a diversion or some sort of trap.”
Kephus smiled, nodding patiently as he said, “A reasonable question. But, to be equally frank, I will point out that you have no leverage here. Without a friend in my position—or one even higher, which would likely prove impossible to secure at this particular stage in the process—you have no choice, unless you want to turn around and leave empty-handed.” The man stood from the desk, prompting Nikomedes to do likewise. “I will dispatch a courier krytzu to retrieve documentation proving that you did, indeed, slay the kraken. That proof will be required at some point if you wish to keep Nykator’s lackeys from encircling you like a pack of hungry vultures,” he explained as Nikomedes made to protest.
He wanted to argue with Kephus, but the truth was that while Nikomedes was definitely sharper-witted than the vast majority of warriors, it appeared that Kephus’ knowledge of local politics—and possibly even politics in general—far outstripped his own. The way the other man moved from topic to topic like Nikomedes’ body moved from one position to another during a duel convinced him to hear the other man out after a moment’s consideration.
“If they recognize you for a real threat before you have already secured your place here,” Kephus explained patiently, “it will become impossible for you to gain the necessary acclaim and prestige to warrant genuine consideration. But if you do not have proof of sufficient deeds when you reveal your intentions, you will find an impenetrable barrier between yourself and your goal—a barrier composed of your competitors, briefly united in the cause of proving themselves to the Land Bride. Eliminating an unfit rival from the field—a rival who would besmirch her station simply by suggesting he was fit to serve as her Protector—would move the scales in favor of any number of hopeful candidates at this particular stage.”
Nikomedes felt his hands clenching tightly into fists at his sides. He had hoped that the politics of the situation would remain a problem for the future, at least for a time, but now that he was faced with the reality of the contest before him he felt oddly exhilarated.
“Very well,” Nikomedes said with a nod, “I will go to Messene.”
“Good,” Kephus grunted. “And when you get back—assuming you can prove that you are who you claim to be—we’ll take a harder look at what particular role you might play in what is to come.”
Nikomedes hesitated, since an all-too-obvious question had nearly leapt off his tongue several times during the conversation. Still, he needed to know the answer—especially if he was going to take a several week long trip to Messene literal minutes after arriving in Argos.
“Spit it out,” Kephus said gruffly, “so we can get about our business.”
Nikomedes shot the man a hard look before finally relenting and asking, “Has the Land Bride formally announced her intention to take a Protector?”
Kephus snorted, “That one? No,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “If she had, I likely would have already made my own move against her uncle-father.”
Feeling a wave of relief wash over him, Nikomedes drew a deep, calming breath before asking, “Is this her seventeenth year?”
“It is her nineteenth,” Kephus replied, “the anniversary of her birth was celebrated just three weeks ago.”
Nikomedes cocked his head in confusion, “But…for a First Daughter of Argos to go so long without accepting a sword…”
Kephus snorted again, “We will discuss that matter further on your return. For now, you must secure the sworn statement of your mother’s kin.”
Nikomedes nodded, knowing that if Kastor Kephus had spoken truly, he had already been more helpful than Nikomedes had anticipated he might be.
And if he had deceived Nikomedes in any way, he would deal with that betrayal in the oldest ways of Men. “Thank you, Kastor Kephus.”
“May Men speed you on your path,” the other man acknowledged with a nod, prompting Nikomedes to turn and leave the guardhouse and set off toward the place of his birth.
Chapter XII: Homecoming
The journey to Messene took even longer than the one which had brought him from the northwestern border of Argos’ territory to the citadel proper. But during that time, he thought about what Kastor Kephus had said. A few days before he arrived in the town of his birth, Nikomedes decided that Kephus was a trustworthy man—or, at least, that he was trustworthy enough to serve as a temporary ally.
As the island of Messene came into view on the afternoon of the sixteenth day, Nikomedes stopped and admired the view of a nearly identical scene to the last one his mind had captured as father had led him, and his brother, away from this place for what they had assumed would be the last time.
Messene and its surrounding environs had been settled several times in the past two hundred years, but each time it had quickly become a staging point for the ongoing hostilities between the powerhouses of the region, Argos and Lyconesia. Once, the Tegeans had even captured the location—which was known for its long, jagged peninsula of rock stretching out into the ocean toward the island itself, and the high, volcanic peak at the base of that peninsula which had lain dormant since the beginning of recorded history.
The island itself was considered an ideal staging point, given its seclusion and natural moat provided by the extreme tides caused by the twin moons which crossed the sky. Only when those moons were aligned—which occurred just a few times each year—would the land bridge become passable and movement of men and materials to and from Messene become possible.
The soil of the surrounding area was rich and dark, where it could be found among the many jagged rocks of the broken landscape. The deepest sections of dirt, at least in the area surrounding the peninsula itself, were on the slopes of the volcanic peak and the base of the peninsula itself. It was this soil which had caused the relatively remote area to be fought over for so many years by the neighboring Holds with the power and will to compete for it.
But with each campaign that saw it serve as a battlefield, the former colony was destroyed and the settlers who had attempted to carve out a life in the shadow of the mountain fled to their places of origin.
Of course, there was another reason why the region of Messene had been so sparsely populated throughout recorded history: Stone Rhinos.
There were several graveyards, where the mighty beasts came to die, scattered throughout the area—the most prolific of which was on the island itself. One such graveyard had been an infrequent haunt for Nikomedes and his elder brother when their father had gone away to war. The bones and leathery, slowly-decaying skin of the rampaging, six-legged monstrosities were found in a deep pit in the middle of one of the richest concentrations of dirt in the entire province.
The skin of a Stone Rhino which had died from natural causes was nearly useless to humans, since it lacked the flexibility of regular animal hide as well as the legendary protection qualities of a fully-grown male’s hide in rutting season. It was a thick, brittle material with little practical use, and so the people who lived in Messene left the graveyard alone.
There was little pattern in the timing of a Stone Rhino’s return to the graveyard for the final days of its life. Some came well
before the winter’s thaw while some came shortly thereafter. Even some had been seen laying down among the bones of its fellows at the height of mating season, which suggested that the urge to die in such a graveyard was truly overpowering, eclipsing even the most basic of life’s needs: procreation. The Stone Rhinos, however, only rarely returned to Messene when the land bridge was impassable, which meant they could read that much of the heavens as well as humans could.
But in spite of the dangers, the lands of Messene were fertile and productive—for those courageous enough to work them. Nikomedes’ mother, and her mother before her, had been such people and had settled portions of both the island and the base of the peninsula. Archimedes, Nikomedes’ father, had been a lowly soldier serving the then-Protector of Argos’ as a member of his sworn war band at the time he had met Nikomedes’ mother, Hera.
A relatively minor skirmish had seen three hundred of Argos’ hoplites come to Messene to uproot a group one third their size composed of Tegeans fighting under the banner of a past-his-prime warlord.
Archimedes had slain that warlord in a pitched duel—one which had seen Archimedes’ left knee sustain a lifelong wound which had never allowed him to walk without pain after sustaining it. Hera, a sixteen year old woman at the time and heiress to a large tract of grain-rich land, had offered to care for him after the army departed with its duty discharged, and the Tegeans evicted from Zosime territory.
Things progressed as they normally do between a man and woman of similar age and, less than half a year after arriving in Messene, Archimedes and Hera had been joined as men and women of their station. He took up the role of Guardian to her relatively modest holdings, and she served as birth mother to Nikomedes and his elder brother.
She had also born three daughters—only two of which survived past their first year—and it was after the second reached her third year that Hera had amicably dissolved the union with Nikomedes’ father.
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