Breaking the Gloaming

by J. B. Simmons

  They reached the line of archers, and the nobles’ sons began searching for their pick among the men. They enjoyed themselves while doing it, laughing at the soldiers without any regard to whether they could hear them or not.

  “This one.” Jacodin pointed to an old thin man, maybe ten years older than Ulysses. “Fire again, good sir,” Jacodin commanded.

  The old man winked at Ulysses and turned toward the targets. His arms and hands shook violently while he drew the string and released. The bow fell to the ground and the arrow sank into the mud twenty feet short of the target. The old man shrugged.

  “He’s the one, he’s our pick!” Jonas looked to Ulysses. “And who is yours?”

  “Shall I pick myself?” Ulysses put his hands to his chest. “Or maybe Pikeli? I hear the Sunans are trained well with the bow. Sebastian?” Pikeli and Sebastian both shook their heads. A crowd had gathered to watch them by now.

  “I think it would be unfair to pick two old men to compete against two young ones, so I’ll pass on myself.” He swept his eyes over the men circling around them. He smiled when he saw his pick.

  “That one.” He pointed to Telemachus. “If he can keep his hair out of his eyes, I think he’ll make us proud. This way, the average age of the teams will be closer.”

  Tel walked forward, grasped the hand of the older archer and held it high. They were an odd-looking pair, but the surrounding men rooted for them all the same.

  While Pikeli gave the competitors bows of equal quality, Ulysses drew a line in the mud with his boot. He made sure the line was far from the targets, twice as far as it had been for the practicing soldiers.

  “You never said you’d make us shoot from so far,” Jonas complained.

  “What, boy, afraid a grandfather is too strong for you?” The old archer said. He clapped his hand against Jonas’s back. “It’s a fine distance, I think, only the wise knight has put it so far that I can’t quite see the targets. At least it has stopped raining.”

  Jacodin smiled. “You’ll just have to guess where the target is, grandfather.” He turned to Tel. “And you’ll have to pretend to be a man. Ulysses can only blame himself for making this so unfair. Good luck.”

  The young Talnor took his bow and prepared to shoot first. His form surprised Ulysses. It was strong and stable. He steadied himself and released smoothly. The arrow sailed pure and struck the stone wall a foot to the right of the target. Ulysses breathed easier; he had not expected the young man to be that close on his first shot.

  The old man was next. He looked far better than he had in practice. But it was a long shot. His arrow wobbled slightly and landed five feet short of the target.

  Jonas went third. As soon as he grabbed his bow, Ulysses knew he had no chance. His feet were too close together. He pulled too hard on the string, and his arrow slipped from his hand and flew only a few feet. Pikeli bounced over, picked it up, and returned it to Jonas. The crowd of men laughed and mocked. Jonas’s face was red.

  Tel had the last shot of the first round. He wiped his wet hair back from his forehead and crouched with the calm of a veteran. He pulled the string and released without the slightest pause. The arrow looked on the mark but hit the wall almost exactly where Jacodin’s had.

  Four shots, no hits. Ulysses’s plan was working.

  Jacodin took up position for his last shot. He wore grim determination on his face. Ulysses thought for a moment that he was something more than a spoiled, grown child. He almost looked like his father had many years ago.

  Jacodin released and held his pose. The arrow struck the bullseye. The men cheered around him. He surprised Ulysses again by simply nodding and stepping away, as if he’d expected to do it and needed no praise.

  The old man winked again at Ulysses before setting himself. It was a knowing wink, the kind passed between equals. He rubbed the white scruff on his cheek with his hand before taking the string. He pulled it back steadily and held it there, coiled with tension, for a long moment. He released and stayed frozen in his place. The arrow plunged into the bottom-most ring of the target. An inch lower and it would have missed.

  The old man held his arms above his head in victory, while the men cheered, far louder than they had for Jacodin.

  Jonas stepped up again. His stance looked better, but he was still far from ready for this. His arrow wobbled through the air and hit the wall ten feet high and to the right.

  Tel was last. He did not spare a look for his father. Ulysses watched him, his gut clenching with the raw, hopeful anticipation only a father knows. He wanted to stand at his boy’s side, to tell him to shift his left knee out an inch, to keep his bow straighter. But he stood to the side. He did not offer advice, for Tel no longer needed it.

  The arrow sailed just as Jacodin’s had, high and pure, and it met Jacodin’s in the bullseye.

  The crowd roared. Ulysses’s joy was even louder inside him. He walked to his son and clasped his shoulders. They smiled at each other, knowing, loving.

  Then Tel turned back to his men, waving in thanks for their praise. The time would come for the father and son to celebrate this together.

  As the crowd dissipated, Ulysses approached Jacodin and Jonas. Jonas was whining. Jacodin took it like a man. Pikeli stood beside them, quiet for once, but with triumph written all over his face.

  “You’ll report to Pikeli at first light tomorrow,” Ulysses said. “Pikeli, start Jonas with the archers. He has much to learn. From now on, have the archers train for the real siege to come. Set the targets out on the beach, and have them shoot from the walls. The battle is coming soon.”

  Ulysses turned from Pikeli to Jacodin. Ryn’s son had been hiding his skills, drowning them in taverns. Valemidas could not afford to let men like him go to waste.

  “Put Jacodin in charge of half the brigade’s swordsmen, and put Tel in charge of the other half. Let them organize and plan for a melee to take place in a week. Whichever of them wins, I will advise the prince to raise him to knighthood.”

  Jacodin met Ulysses’s stare. There was respect in his gaze.

  Ulysses stepped to him and spoke in a low voice only he could hear. “You have greatness within you, like your father. Ryn fought by my side with valor before he gained his noble house. Age and riches have slowed him, but you have his spirit. I would be honored to fight beside his son in this war. Our city needs you. Be an example to your peers.” He nodded toward Jonas.

  “Thank you,” Jacodin replied. “My father does not talk about his past much.”

  “When a man has grown soft by his own choices, it might shame him to think of his former strength.”

  “Different strengths are needed for times of peace and war,” Jacodin said. “My father is powerful in the politics of this city.”

  “The difference between peace and war is only circumstance. Ask yourself which kind of strength you would rather have. The strength to fight and preserve peace, or the strength to merely live in peace.” Ulysses turned to go.

  “You cannot manipulate men into whatever you wish,” Jacodin said.

  “I lead men,” Ulysses said, glancing back, “and men follow wisdom. You would do well to do the same.”

  Ulysses studied the group still around them. They looked too tired and uncertain for what was to come. “For Valemidas!” he chanted as he walked away.

  “For Valemidas!” they responded.

  Ulysses needed to speak with Ryn, but not before he dealt with Sebastian. He tapped the spy’s shoulder as he departed. Sebastian followed him.

  They walked in quiet as a light mist began to fill the darkening sky. Ulysses led him up the stairs in the tower at the southwest corner of the wall. Once they reached the ramparts, looking over the beach to the south, Sebastian spoke first.

  “The Sunans will be as numerous as this sand. They believe their leader is their god. The disorder and disunity we have seen among the Valemidans would not be tolerated in Sunan.”

  “You sound disappointed in our people,” Ul
ysses said, “but you have become one of us. What has kept you here?”

  “Duty,” Sebastian answered. “My father sent me away to learn from this land and its people when I was twelve years old. I learned how to find my way among the shadows and those who dwell in them. In time I enlisted with the prince’s network of spies, and you know the story from there. I am here now because it is my duty to Andor.”

  Ulysses found Sebastian’s open, honest gaze unnerving. It was too honest for a spy. “When did you last hear from someone in Sunan?” Ulysses pried at a different angle.

  Sebastian glanced out to the sea. “Merchants were long a source of information. Now that trade has cut off, the messages are few and far between. I pick up bits and pieces from smugglers, from the black markets that our prince pretends he does not see.”

  “And when did you last pick up one of these bits of information?” Ulysses wanted his question answered.

  “It was about a month ago, from a smuggler.”

  “And the smuggler confirmed that Sunan would be invading this winter?” Ulysses asked.

  “Yes, he said their full fleet would arrive in a few months. His Excellency will be leading the voyage and the war.” Sebastian touched his temple when he said the Sunan leader’s title.

  “His Excellency has tattoos like yours?” Ulysses guessed.

  Sebastian stared at Ulysses. “Why does that matter?” Sebastian’s tone hinted that knew the Sunan leader’s tattoos, even though he once claimed to have never met him.

  “Your tattoos mark you as a Sunan here.” Ulysses touched the blank, wrinkled skin beside his eyes. “I need to know more about our enemy. Do all Sunans have them?”

  “Almost all,” Sebastian said. “The men receive them once they reach the age of enlisting, usually around ten years old. Women do not have them unless they serve in the temples. Servants of His Excellency’s house receive them only upon death, as their rewards for lives of service. The tattoos show our place in society.”

  “Your tattoos, the pyramids,” Ulysses said, “they show that you are of the royal house?”

  “My pyramids?” Sebastian hesitated and glanced back toward the river. “No, my father was a warrior. Pyramids are the symbol of Sunan. It is a common tattoo.”

  Ulysses knew it was a lie. He pressed further. “What are you going to do with the Icarian powder?”

  Sebastian’s eyes showed the slightest of tension. He would not want to admit his surprise that Ulysses had learned this.

  “I am going to do my part to help Valemidas defeat Sunan.” The spy’s tone dared Ulysses to challenge him.

  “You serve Valemidas because you were spurned by your father and the Sunans?”

  “I serve Valemidas because it has become my home, and because Andor has earned my loyalty.”

  Ulysses knew Andor had not earned it; he had bought it with promises. “Loyalty, Sebastian, does not mean kidnapping Valemidas citizens for your purposes.”

  “What are you talking about?” Anger simmered in Sebastian’s voice.

  “I think you know,” Ulysses began, “about the old woman from the cathedral. Some of my soldiers live in the slums by the docks. Two nights ago one of them heard screaming and battered down a door in an alley. Inside were two women. One was a woman from the archives, named Page. She was guarding an old nun held captive there. Page mentioned your name.”

  “I am familiar with Page, a simple woman who lives among books. But I know nothing of this kidnapping.” Sebastian’s face was calm, too calm. “You summoned me for this?”

  “Funny thing,” Ulysses smiled, “Page said the same thing about being a simple woman who lives among books. Then she claimed credit for the kidnapping. She said it was part of some feud about a long dead prince and his legacy. She said you had nothing to do with it.”

  “Of course I had nothing to do with it. Where is this going, Ulysses? You want me to beg for Page’s release?”

  “You have not asked me about the nun,” Ulysses said.

  “Why would I care about her?”

  “I think you know.”

  Sebastian leaned forward, his face in Ulysses’s face. “What game are you playing, knight?”

  “This is no game.” Ulysses met Sebastian’s glare. “This is a training field where loyalty is tested. The prince will hear your side of the story. Whatever he decides, know that your woman from the archives is safe. She is safe in my possession, and she’ll stay that way as long as you stay loyal.”

  “You hold no sway over me,” Sebastian said. “I am loyal to the prince, and he will have my service, not you.”

  “We all serve the prince,” Ulysses answered, “and those who do not will lose what matters most to them. Goodnight, Sebastian.”

  Ulysses left the spy alone on the wall, in the dark. As he made his way back to the palace, he braced for the war to come. Every battle brought treachery and gamesmanship of the worst sort. If Ulysses kept playing the games well, Valemidas might be ready to fight.

  Chapter 20

  A BOY KING'S PRINCESS

  “A wicked messenger falleth into mischief:

  but a faithful ambassador is health.”

  His Excellency traveled in high style. Soldiers and supplies crammed into the hundreds of ships in the Sunan fleet. But the ship with golden sails, at the front of the fleet, was crammed full of minstrels and servants, wine and gold, and anything else that pleased His Excellency. The boy laughed often. He especially laughed now, as Ravien sat in his lap and nibbled at his ear.

  She wanted to bite the ear off and spit it in his face, but the time had not yet come. Soon, she thought, this would end soon. Ilias had given her a tip that helped her sustain her performance. Pretend he is your little brother, Ilias had suggested weeks ago. Since then, she treated His Excellency like a juvenile Tryst, and it seemed to work.

  The duet of an accordion and lyre ended. The Sunan music had been a refuge for her, with its deep and majestic melodies. She sighed and stood from His Excellency’s lap. She gave him a fawning smile, which he returned.

  “Must we be done already?” He looked at the minstrels in the corner, and then to the door at the far end of his quarters. He looked up at Ravien. “You will stay for my meeting of military advisors.”

  Ravien nodded. The young king’s initial doubts of her affection and loyalty had worn away. As the weeks had passed, she had begun attending all of his meetings. She had access to information that a Valemidan spy would kill for.

  “Another grape?” Jezebel pulled the king’s attention away from Ravien. The other woman stood at his other side, dangling a moist bunch of purple fruit over him.

  He turned to Jezebel and leaned his head back with his mouth open. She placed a grape in his mouth and they laughed. She took the spot in his lap where Ravien had been a moment before. Jezebel glanced at Ravien with a he’s-mine-now challenge.

  Ravien kept wearing her fake smile. It was a helpful distraction to have the harlot in his bed, but the woman would not cease her gloating, as if to prove that Jezebel was the greater woman, the more beautiful prize. Her thick-accented mantra to Ravien was: Keep trying, princess, and maybe someday I’ll share him with you. It undermined the dignity owed to a woman.

  “Ravien, bring my advisors in now.” The king pointed to the door without looking away from Jezebel.

  Such commands had been torture at first. Now Ravien thought of her little Tryst, grinned, and walked to the door. As she pulled the door open, a rush of cold ocean air blew in. A large group of men stood outside on the deck, most of them looking stern and impatient.

  Ravien counted thirteen, one more than usual. Twelve of them had been meeting with His Excellency twice every day of their month at sea. Ravien had learned much from the meetings, and from the men.

  Seban was their figurehead who cared little for details. Despite his crassness, she believed he was true at heart. Something dark lurked underneath his swagger, some pain involving his son, Sebastian.

  Dassa led t
he seven fierce-looking men whom Ravien had deemed “the silent warriors.” Each of them had thousands under their command. Dassa spoke for them all on military tactics. He had shown little regard for the death and suffering this war would bring. He and the silent warriors were ready to march their legions into Valemidas and kill everyone in their path, if His Excellency wished it. They were devout in the worst way.

  Ball and Dalai were the two masters of supplies. They had brought enough for a long siege. Between the two merchants, Ball did the talking. He had refused to acknowledge Wren’s existence, other than to reject Ravien’s requests that he convey messages to her husband. The merchant had said it was too dangerous. Ravien did not believe him, but at least he had lived up to their deal by bringing Wren along on the voyage.

  The last two of the twelve men were the priests, Ilias and Malam. They commanded the greatest respect and spoke the most, despite lacking military training. It seemed there were no lines separating religion, reason, and politics for the Sunans. Everything centered on their divine king, and he let the priests debate every decision into the ground.

  At first, Ravien had thought the young king lazy, but she had come to see some savvy in his deference to the rival priests. The two rivals competed for his favor. The boy managed to stay above the fray that way, like the god these Sunans believed him to be. He made decisions only when he had to, like today.

  As the twelve advisors flooded in, two silent warriors escorted the thirteenth man like a captive. The news had come to His Excellency early this morning that, in the middle of the night, a smuggler had been caught trying to slip by the fleet. He had been sailing from the direction of Valemidas, just a couple days travel to the west.

  Now the Sunans were gathering around the smuggler, whose hood obscured his face. One of the silent warriors pulled back the hood, and the room erupted in shouting and movement.

  Seban rushed at the newcomer and punched him in the face. Malam yelled something in the Sunan tongue. Ilias tried to shield the smuggler, and the silent warriors watched on, their hard bodies tense.