“Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary,” Farnell said, studying them with dark, shadowed eyes.
“Not anymore,” Nolyn replied. “There are only eight of us left, and we deserted, so I don’t think we can lay claim to that title any longer.”
Farnell nodded. At least Nolyn thought he did. The motion was so slight that he might have imagined it. The others in the command tent said nothing.
Not all legates worked in tents. Prohibited by imperial edict from setting up shop within the limits of any city, some commandeered farmhouses or barns. Nolyn recalled that the legate of the First Legion had once settled into a winery and called it the best headquarters ever. When tents were used, however, they all conformed to the same standards: a large square footprint with red-and-brown canvas walls held up by thick poles. Inside, floors were cushioned by overlapped carpets, and there was always a desk and multiple tables where staff officers worked. In Farnell’s case, he had four others in his tent. One was clearly the First Prymus of the legion and another a scribe, who scratched on a parchment, making a sound like a mouse gnawing through wood.
A young man—a runner—dashed in with a small scroll and promptly handed it to the legate. After a hasty salute, he left. Farnell snapped the seal, looked the parchment over, then re-rolled it into a cylinder.
“And you are Amicus Killian.” Farnell pointed at him with the end of the scroll.
“Yes, sir.” Amicus and Nolyn stood shoulder to shoulder just inside the big tent, holding themselves at attention in front of the big table covered in maps.
“Is that where you’ve been all this time?” the First Prymus of the Second Legion asked. He’d been introduced as Jareb Tanator, and he stepped forward to receive the scroll from Farnell, which he glanced at and then added it to the pile on the desk that was as covered with scrolls as the table was with maps.
“I joined the legion two days after the fight with Abryll Orphe,” Amicus replied.
“You ran away from the emperor?” Jareb asked.
Nolyn didn’t detect an insult. Tanator’s tone wasn’t snide. If anything, it lacked all emotion. Both the legate and the First Prymus were blank walls and would have made excellent card players.
We aren’t in chains—that’s something, at least.
“There’s no precedent for this?” Farnell said, then looked over his shoulder at the scribe working at the little table next to the big desk. His head popped up and quickly shook. “Didn’t think so.”
Farnell folded his arms. “Had you been anyone else, you’d already have hanged.”
“Can’t do that, sir,” the scribe said. His voice was tinny, like a poorly pitched whistle.
“Yes, I know, Sloot. That’s why I said—”
“He’s the emperor’s son and—”
“I just said I know that, Sloot.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Farnell shook his head and sighed. “As my scribe is overly eager to point out, I can’t put the son of the emperor to death. It would also be difficult to order the execution of Amicus Killian—even though you are already under an imperial death sentence. Nor would I win a popularity contest by killing the remaining members of the famed Seventh Sik-Aux. Vernes has been caught up in rebellion fever as of late, and your timing is absolutely awful.”
“Or perfect,” the First Prymus said.
Farnell gave his officer a disdainful glance. “Nothing is ever perfect, but it’s awkward. That declaration you made on the docks has already ripped through my legion. News of it has left the city, spreading out with every merchant trader and itinerant physician. Word will reach Percepliquis in a few days. The emperor will weigh in and instruct me on my duty, which I suspect will be to send the lot of you to the palace for—”
“Entertainment,” Amicus said.
The legate looked at him and nodded. “Yes, I suspect as much.”
Nolyn held out his arms. “Then why aren’t I wearing manacles and chains?”
“You know as well as I do that a commander does not rule by the grace of the gods, but by the submission of his men. I control five thousand trained killers. Fear and respect are what keep my legion in line. Properly evaluating and guiding morale is all that keeps me in this tent and off a pike. Right now, morale is tenuous at best.”
“Worse than that I think, sir,” the scribe said while not lifting his head or his pen from his work.
“Quiet, Sloot.” Farnell glanced at the First Prymus and frowned—career soldiers never smiled, but they did often frown—or what was called the legionnaire-smile. “Of course, Nolyn Nyphronian and Amicus Killian are not idiots—are you? You knew all this, or you never would have stood on a stack of crates and declared the start of a revolution.”
It was Nolyn and Amicus’s turn to show stone faces and wait. In his mind, Nolyn saw Farnell as an open barrel of wine he had kicked, wobbling on the edge of a step. It would either settle and all would be fine, or it would tip, fall, and spill, creating an awful mess.
“But,” Farnell said, clasping his hands together thoughtfully, “I wonder if you know about the voices.”
Nolyn didn’t, and despite his best attempt at holding fast to an expressionless face, he glanced at Amicus, who showed he had no idea, either.
“Didn’t think so,” Farnell said. The legate crossed the patchwork of overlaid carpets to the entrance of his tent and drew closed the flaps, sealing out the bustle of the camp.
“There are two reasons Vernes is ripe for unrest. The first is that Rhulynia’s governor has recently died. The second stems from the emperor’s new appointee. Advaryn Wyn is a Fhrey who hails from Merredydd and is known to hate humans. He has vowed to crackdown on the liberal nature of our fair port city. As a result, there has been a general call to launch a rebellion on Founder’s Day when the replacement will be official. Most people already thought this year’s celebration would be a day of protest, and then you showed up. Now people are taking the whole matter even more seriously.
“The second reason Vernes is on edge is because of the voices.” He returned to the desk and leaned on it. “Men—particularly men in the legion—have been hearing disembodied voices in their heads inciting them to revolution.”
“Whose voice, sir?” Nolyn asked.
“That’s just the thing. No one knows, but those who have experienced it say they believe it’s the voice of a god.”
“Which one?”
Farnell shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. What does is what these voices have been saying. They proclaim the coming of a hero who will save them from the injustice of the emperor.”
“You don’t mean me, do you?”
“Those who report to have heard the voices have explained that this savior will arrive by warship, come out of the east, and be neither human nor Fhrey.”
He paused to let the words sink in.
“A god prophesied my coming?”
Farnell nodded. “Impressive, wouldn’t you say? And now that you’ve come, well, what once was a fanciful wish has become a reality. At this point, whatever I order done to you will, in fact, happen to me. That puts me in the unenviable position of either remaining loyal to the emperor and inviting my own men to revolt or embracing the revolution and listen to the voices that say you are destined to challenge your father and change the world for the better.”
He pushed off the desk, crossed the carpets, and threw back the tent flap, granting sunlight entry into the darkened interior. “I can hand over command of the Second Legion to you and win the support and affection of the five thousand killers around me. But doing so will also incur the wrath of the emperor. If you win, I become a hero in the eyes of many. If I stay loyal—and survive in the short term—then even if you fail, Advaryn Wyn would most certainly be appointed with a mandate to make an example of Rhulynia and Vernes. I would be ordered to march on the city and kill hundreds of men and women whom I know. People whose only crime is wanting to be treated fairly and equally in their own empyre.”
Nolyn realized then
that the legate’s mind had been made up even before they had entered his tent. “You’ve heard this voice. Haven’t you?”
Legate Farnell didn’t answer, but he legionnaire-smiled.
Chapter Fourteen
A Gem of Great Worth
The piece Augustine created was exquisite. He had worked a massive emerald into the exact shape and size of a chicken’s egg. Then he netted it with delicate strands of gold, riveted in place by tiny diamonds. The whole thing was set upon a solid-gold pedestal like a one-minute, pickled breakfast for a king. The work of bejeweled art was utterly delightful—and equally useless. Had Augustine created a bracelet, necklace, or armband, there was a chance Nyphron might actually wear it. But an egg? More arrogantly than a peacock it proclaimed its worth, and the size was such that the egg could easily be picked up and pursed if it were foolishly displayed. There was only one home for such an absurd treasure.
“Do you think he’ll put it in the safe straightaway?” Sephryn asked Errol.
The thief had once again accompanied her, eager to see more of the Gem Fortress. The three of them sat at a small display table where the gem resided in a beam of sunlight that made the diamonds sparkle.
“Errol?”
He didn’t appear to hear her as he sat and stared, captivated by the egg on the table.
“Errol?”
“What?” He blinked. “Oh, ah, of course, what do you expect the emperor to do? Walk around with it? It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Now we just have to get it into his hands.”
They both looked at Augustine with innocent smiles.
Brinkle frowned and leaned back in his office chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest with a sound like a troop of marching mice. “I’m not at all comfortable with making this an official gift from the Belgriclungreians. Such things are matters of public record. I’m not authorized to act independently.”
“Is it a crime to give the emperor a gift?” Errol asked.
“Well, no.”
“Do you think doing so will start a war or something?”
“Not exactly, but when it’s determined what part I had to play in this affair, I—”
“What part?” Errol asked. “You gave the emperor—your host—a gift for Founder’s Day. An extremely generous gift. It happened to be an emerald. A lot of people like green gems. Not your fault that it messes with the emperor’s safe. You aren’t even going to ask him to put it there, are you? Of course not. Sheer coincidence is the culprit. So how does that implicate you in anything?”
“I should mention that it was quite expensive to make.” Augustine looked at the egg like a child who is told his new puppy is going to a faraway farm.
“Rain, not Gronbach. Remember?” Sephryn smiled, going so far as to push up the corners of her mouth with her fingers as a show of encouragement. “Trust me. What’s at stake is more precious.”
Augustine Brinkle sighed. “I shouldn’t have let the two of you in. Never should have listened.” He shook a finger. “You both owe me.”
“The empyre will be in your debt,” Sephryn said.
Again, Augustine frowned. “The empyre still owes us for the crown we made Nyphron more than eight hundred years ago.”
“Sounds like Gronbach-talk to me,” Sephryn said. “You need to focus on your legacy and fight those voices in your head.”
“I have nothing of the sort.”
“Consider yourself lucky.”
Sephryn stared at the egg, which was stunning beyond imagination. Although not what she would call beautiful—the gem was far too gaudy for her taste—the artistry required to create it was unmistakable. And the value of the piece, she couldn’t even begin to guess. Sephryn was terrified to touch it. Neither she nor Errol tried.
“What about the other gem?” she asked.
Brinkle dug into his pocket and drew forth what looked like a rock. Dull, blemished, reddish in places, purple in others, the uncut crystal was roughly the same size as the egg, but it possessed no beauty at all. “This will do. Just tap it to the safe when Bartholomew is inside, and the lock should release.”
“Bartholomew?”
Brinkle looked uncomfortable.
“You named the egg?”
Errol reached out, but Brinkle handed the uncut ruby to Sephryn. “I’ll want that back, and Bar . . . ah, the emerald. Please remember to take it, along with whatever else you’re after, and return it to me.”
“And you will see to it that the emperor receives this today?” Sephryn asked.
Brinkle hesitated.
“Sir?” she asked.
The ambassador took a deep breath, pursed his lips, then banged on the arms of his chair with great force. “I want to see you with Audrey,” he blurted out.
“Excuse me? You want what?”
“I want to witness the daughter of Moya wield her mother’s famous weapon, the bow she named Audrey. I’ve heard the tales all my life. It would be a dream come true.”
“I’m not my mother,” Sephryn said sincerely.
Brinkle folded his arms defiantly. “Bartholomew is a gem of great worth dressed up in a suit of splendor, and I made him for you and asked for nothing. I did all this on blind faith. The ruby—even uncut—is worth more than his life.” Brinkle pointed at Errol.
“You don’t know that for certain,” Errol replied, then sighed and shook his head. “Precise—whoever said your kind were punctilious was wrong.”
“This is such a tiny condition,” Brinkle pressed, leaning his hands forward on the table. “If I’m going to risk a fortune, you can show me the bow and give me a demonstration of what you learned from your mother. She was supposed to be so fast that she could loose twenty arrows a minute, and so accurate that she could hit a dove in flight a mile away.”
“See!” Sephryn exclaimed. She turned to Errol. “This is what I have to expect. My mother never released more than twelve arrows a minute, and if she did, they wouldn’t have been aimed. And for Mari’s sake, who would shoot a dove?”
“If you want Bartholomew locked in a box in the palace, then that’s my price.”
“I’m not that good.”
“Still want to see it.”
Sephryn looked at the gem. “I suppose you’ve earned it. Can we make it just the two of us, so I don’t make a fool out of myself in front of a crowd? I think it will be hard to live up to a thousand years of hype.”
“I’ll leash my expectations,” he said, but his eyes told a different story.
She stood up. “Errol?”
“What?” he replied, his eyes still on the emerald egg.
“We’re leaving.”
“Of course we are.”
“And you stay out of my workshop,” Augustine growled at the thief.
“And thank you so much, ambassador,” Sephryn said, dragging Errol toward the exit. “Today, you are truly Rain.”
“Please, call me Augustine.”
“You want me to hold onto the ruby for you?” the thief asked when they were outside.
“Errol, I realize you have about as much respect for me as you might for a turtle, but given that I’m able to walk upright, you must realize I’m not that stupid.”
“I suppose not,” he replied and sighed.
“Now what?” she asked.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
He frowned. “Seriously? And you expect more respect than a turtle?” Errol rolled his eyes. “I’ll contact you when I know something.”
She watched him go. Errol was annoying, but he had been a welcome distraction. Alone, her thoughts returned to Nurgya, and the many things that were likely to go wrong with the plan.
Sephryn headed home, going the long way around to avoid seeing anyone she knew. She headed up the hill past Eagleton’s Red Chariots. Eagleton’s was a feed merchant that provided most of the animal grain in the city and headed a wealthy and powerful association of farmers, carters, and tradesmen. The company was also the proud sponsor of the famou
s Red Chariot racing team. There were four major teams in Percepliquis: Red, White, Green, and Blue. Each had sponsors, who often saw sales go up when their teams won.
She had seen her first chariot race with Nolyn almost eight hundred years before. Back then, she had only recently returned to the city after her mother’s death. Sephryn had been on her own for the first time. The Grenmorian War was over, the Goblin Wars yet to start, and she, Bran, and Nolyn were in Percepliquis. It was the start of the Wonderful Year when the three were reunited for the last time. On the first day she and Nolyn spent alone together, he took her to the newly built Grand Circus to see his beloved Red Team. Even back then, there had been a Red Team, but Eagleton’s wasn’t the sponsor; they didn’t yet exist. The city was only thirty-four years old and most of the risers in the new arena were empty. At that time, the Red Team was supported by a local bread shop that won fans by offering free loafs at the race.
Nolyn and Sephryn had sat in the stands, chewing their portion of day-old crust and freezing in the blasts of unrelenting late-winter winds. Nolyn had a blanket that they shared, huddled together, arms around each other, heads tilted until they touched. She remembered everything about that day, except who had won the race.
Sephryn paused before the big red sign and looked up at the stylized crimson chariot with bright yellow wheels, ten horses pulling it.
He never met his son, and if I don’t get this right, he never will.
Emperor Nyphron, Dragonslayer, Lord of Fhrey and Men, brushed the crumbs of a hastily eaten piece of pecan pie off his tunic as the trumpets sounded, announcing the governor of Merredydd’s arrival.
It had been a year since Nyphron last saw Sikar. They met every Founder’s Day, out of obligation rather than enjoyment. The two had served together at the fortress of Alon Rhist before the Great War, but Sikar had never been a favorite. A satisfactory warrior and dutiful soldier, Sikar resented that Nyphron had never invited him into the ranks of his elite band of warriors known as the Galantians. Through most of his career, Sikar had been a spear commander, but he had risen to captain of the Rhist just before Nyphron assumed control of it. Truth was, no one liked Sikar. The Fhrey was boring. He didn’t get drunk, never disobeyed orders, and had a lousy singing voice. Even Anwir had been more fun. The quiet, knot-obsessed member of the hunter tribe possessed a wicked sense of dark humor. Sikar, however, was a level dirt road without a pothole or bit of gravel to break up the monotony.
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