Nolyn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  She was too scared to think, too terrified to even pray.

  It’s over. This is it. I’m dead, and so is Nurgya.

  “The emperor isn’t in his chambers,” a distant voice said from outside.

  “Do you know where he is?” someone just on the other side of the door replied.

  “In the war room. What’s this about?”

  She heard more footsteps but couldn’t tell if they were coming or going.

  “The emperor’s son is at the gate, and he insists on seeing his father immediately.”

  Nolyn? Nolyn is here?

  “Escort him to the waiting room. I’ll notify Nyphron.”

  The footsteps faded.

  Nolyn is here?

  Returning to the entrance hall, Sephryn had imagined finding scores, no, hundreds of soldiers armed and waiting. Instead, she found Errol seated comfortably on a cushioned chair with a drink in hand. Opella was nowhere to be seen. Errol put the glass down, hopped to his feet, and without a word, the two darted for the courtyard.

  Sephryn was shaking and kept looking back.

  “Stop doing that,” Errol whispered.

  They walked quickly across the courtyard to the records room where Seymour waited.

  “Well?” the monk asked.

  “Yes—well?” Errol repeated.

  “I got it.” She held up Mica’s bag.

  “And the emerald?” Errol asked.

  She tapped her purse.

  “Everything worked perfectly. Here, take it.” Sephryn shoved Mica’s bag into Seymour’s hands.

  The monk looked at it, surprised.

  “Why give it to him?” Errol asked.

  “I’m going to demand that the Voice returns Nurgya first. I think the Voice is a Fhrey Miralyith, and he plans on using the horn to make himself ruler of the Fhrey. I’m not exactly sure how. It shouldn’t work until several thousand years in the future, but maybe we’re missing some of the details. Once Nurgya is safe, or I learn that he’s . . . well . . . I intend to go to the palace and tell Nyphron everything.”

  “Everything everything?” Errol asked.

  She frowned. “I think I can leave both of you out of it.”

  “So what do you want me to do with this?” Seymour asked.

  “Just keep it here. If by sunset tomorrow I don’t come back, take the horn to the emperor and give it to him. Tell him you had nothing to do with the theft because, of course, you didn’t. Blame me because that’s the truth. Okay? Will you do that for me, Seymour?”

  The monk nodded.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a hug.

  “What about me?” Errol said. “I took a door to the head and endured the profuse apologies of a servant.”

  Sephryn approached and looked at his head. He actually had an ugly bump there.

  “Thank you, too.”

  Errol held out his arms. “Arvis said you’d sleep with me as payment . . .”

  Sephryn’s eyes went wide.

  He smiled. “But I’ll settle for a hug.”

  Sephryn left the records room with Errol. Together they walked to the gate, where the guard smiled. “Late night, I see. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  “We’ll see,” she replied.

  “Farewell, nice working with you.” Errol gave a wave and trotted off.

  Sephryn paused, looking at two men just outside the gate who appeared to be waiting. One was tall and dressed in mirror-like armor. The other, much smaller, man wore robes of the state.

  A strange time to be standing outside the palace.

  She indicated the two. “Did they arrive with the prince?”

  Andrule nodded. “Something important, I guess.”

  Sephryn had long begged Nolyn to confront Nyphron, and he had always refused. Father and son hadn’t spoken face-to-face in centuries. She had no idea why Nolyn was demanding an audience in the middle of the night before Founder’s Day, but she knew it wasn’t because of something trivial. She looked back at the palace and hesitated, wondering if she ought to go back in and . . .

  . . . and what? Tell him the son he never knew existed was kidnapped, and I just robbed the palace in an attempt to save him? “C’mon, honey. Forget whatever you’re doing here in the middle of the night, and let’s go talk to a disembodied voice and hope that the son I just told you about is still alive.”

  How did my life become such a mess?

  Aunt Suri would have said that his return wasn’t a coincidence, that having him show up on the same night she was stealing a horn to save their son couldn’t be the result of random chance. Despite doubting most of what her mother and aunts had told her, Sephryn still felt a powerful urge to suspect something more was going on. Everything at that moment felt connected and purposeful, as if the world was aligning itself, tilting toward some immense event, and she, Sephryn, daughter of Tekchin and Moya, stood remarkably close to the center. But Sephryn also knew that ordinary things could feel filled with portent when it was dark. And just now she was standing under late-night stars.

  She was a block down the Grand Mar before noticing that her purse was missing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Father and Son

  The steward that escorted Nolyn through the palace was human. Nolyn was certain of that. He had round ears and dark eyes; he walked with a fumbling, uncertain gait, and his hair was black. Despite all that evidence, Nolyn could have sworn he had followed the same attendant when his mother was alive.

  Perhaps this is Malcolm, he speculated.

  His mother and aunts had all spoken of a person by that name who wasn’t human, dwarf, or Fhrey. When pressed on the question of what he was, they often changed the subject, making Nolyn believe they didn’t know. In the many outlandish stories they told, Malcolm was a minor character who appeared on the margins. Little was ever said about him, yet Nolyn always found stories that included Malcolm to be the most interesting. He was present at pivotal moments, guiding important decisions, and of course, he didn’t age. He was said to have visited Persephone on the day of her death to say goodbye. Similar rumors surrounded the passing of Roan and Gifford of Rhen and Aunt Suri. In each tale, Malcolm was reported to have not aged a day. Before long, Nolyn spotted the trend and began looking for Malcolm even in the stories where he didn’t appear, believing his hand to be there somewhere, perhaps in disguise.

  Given the potentially momentous, and possibly cataclysmic, nature of the meeting with his father, Nolyn could imagine it would be an event where Malcolm would attend. He’d heard the stories from a young age, and his child’s imagination cultivated the image of Malcolm as a mischievous gremlin who tampered with the lives of otherwise normal folk, exchanging their fortunes for more amusing fates.

  As Nolyn walked the stone corridors of the palace following the little man in his stuffy, long-coated uniform, he hoped the steward was, indeed, Malcolm. At least then something good might be wrung from the encounter, and it would be proof that his life had some meaning. If not, he saw his time on Elan as a mistake, a dead end, a long branch that never managed to grow leaves, much less bear fruit.

  He recalled the story his mother once told him of how Raithe went out the gate of Dahl Rhen to confront the Fhrey gods and prepared to engage in a losing fight with Nyphron of the Galantians. Nolyn always pictured it sunny and heroic. His own encounter would be the night before Founder’s Day in a cold, moonlit palace.

  The steward guided him to a comfortable room, then left.

  So much for him being Malcolm.

  The room held a hearth with a burning fire. Curtains framed tall windows that in the dark of night acted as nothing but black mirrors reflecting his image—one that was quite unimpressive. Shields and swords hung on the walls. We won’t lack for armaments in this fight. Two high-backed chairs faced each other on either end of a small table decorated with a vase of early blooming lilies. Nolyn was standing behind one of the chairs when the door opened, and his father entered.

  At first glance, Nolyn was su
rprised. His father had always seemed huge and frightening. Yet the person walking in was slightly shorter than himself, a bit overweight, and dressed in a simple, rumpled, pullover tunic cinched with a wide embroidered belt. But the most striking thing was that he was smiling. Nolyn never remembered his father doing that. In his few fleeting memories, the emperor was a stern, cold ruler and distant father. He never went to the Hawthorn Glen with the family and would have appeared out of place if he had. “A pine tree in an apple orchard,” his Aunt Suri might have said. She had a thing about trees.

  “Will you look at that,” Nyphron began. “You’ve grown up. I still remember you best as that kid with the runny nose in your mother’s tent in the High Spear Valley. Do you remember that? Probably not. Now look at you. A warrior, a soldier in uniform . . . but only a prymus? Eight centuries and that’s as far as you’ve come? That’s disappointing. I also see you wear your sword. Do you know it’s not permitted to come into the presence of the emperor wearing a blade?”

  “Your steward didn’t say a word.”

  “If my steward were replaced with a well-trained dog, I’d likely get better service.” As if to demonstrate the fact, Nyphron looked around, scowled, then moved to the decanter of wine and pulled the top off. “I suspect he anticipated that, as my son, you would refuse to relinquish your weapon. I certainly would, and he likely assumed you’re just like me.”

  “He would be wrong.” Nolyn gripped the ears of the high-backed chair in front of him like a lectern. “I’m nothing like my father.”

  That made Nyphron smile again. “No? So, you would have given up your sword, then?”

  Nolyn wanted to say he would, except that would be a lie.

  “Yes, I see,” Nyphron said. “Completely unlike your father.”

  The emperor moved to a cabinet and picked up two golden cups. He carried them and the decanter to the little table before the flickering hearth.

  “I don’t think a drink is appropriate,” Nolyn said.

  “Because you’re on duty or because you’re here to kill me? I do hope it’s the latter. Otherwise, I’ll be sorely disappointed. Making just prymus in eight hundred years of service is one thing, but refusing to drink because of regulations is unforgivable. After all, you’re the son of a Galantian. Besides, this is really good wine.”

  Nolyn didn’t move or speak.

  Nyphron poured wine into one of the cups and smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. You’ve assumed command of my First and Second legions and used five warships to take control of the Urum River. And you’ve arrived the night before Founder’s Day wearing your sword—which is also the anniversary of your mother’s death. What else could you be planning? A surprise party?”

  Nolyn was the one surprised. An instant later, he realized he shouldn’t have been. A fleet of warships is a hard secret to keep.

  “You shouldn’t have tried to kill me,” Nolyn admonished, trying to sound superior.

  “Kill you?” Nyphron paused in his pouring of the first drink to stare at his son, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  They weren’t swinging swords yet, but it felt that way, and his father was battering him off-balance with ease. Nolyn hadn’t expected a denial. His father wasn’t the subtle type. If nothing else, Nyphron had always been forthright. The Fhrey had no shame, didn’t know the meaning of the word. “You ordered me into an ambush. Palatus Demetrius of Urlineus is waiting at the palace gate, and he will testify about the dispatch you personally sent to Legate Lynch that instructed him to make my death look like a casualty of war.”

  That not only made his father smile but also laugh aloud. “Why in Elan would I . . . I mean, seriously, Nolyn, I’m both your father and the emperor. If I wanted you dead, that’s what you’d be. And I wouldn’t delegate that duty to a corrupt legate in Calynia. Do you think me such a delicate flower that I would shrink from an unpleasant task? I made you, Nolyn. I’d be perfectly capable of eliminating you. But why would I?”

  “Because you see me as a threat.”

  “Really? What sort?” Nyphron picked up his cup and made a swirling motion toward the dark windows. “Are you referring to the legions you stole? The ones who are about to march on this city and crown you emperor?”

  The way he said it made Nolyn realize he’d been outmaneuvered. He’s had time. Not much, but enough for the legendary Nyphron to outwit my spur-of-the-moment rebellion. My father is a military genius.

  “My legions are corrupt, blighted to the core, but there are certain advantages in rotten apples. They are easily squeezed. You might think that an army of humans would be a weakness for a Fhrey ruler because humans are organizationally weak, but I don’t rule them merely from above, but also from within. Corruption works both ways, and as it turns out, no one can outbid the emperor.”

  Sephryn made the turn onto Ebonydale and ducked under the eaves of the Imperial Masquerade Emporium, the exact spot where she had once placed a flag to help Seymour find his way home. The streets were empty, ghostly, and the moonlight bounced off the cobbles and bathed the tarps and awnings in a light glow. She’d never liked the mask shop. The gruesome faces that hung from the porch as samples always unnerved her. All those grinning visages looked evil, and she often wondered about the people who carved such awful things and what kind of nightmares they suffered. The pale light and deep shadows only enhanced the ghastly impact of the masks, and yet it felt more than appropriate—it felt staged.

  The gods are watching, and I’m tonight’s entertainment.

  Sephryn expected to hear from the Voice the moment she stepped outside the palace gate, but there she was, all the way to the Masquerade Emporium and the Voice hadn’t so much as whispered in her ear. She was far enough away now, and the streets were empty. Sephryn was alone in the night.

  “Hello?” she ventured softly.

  No response.

  “I stole the horn like you wanted. Are you there?” she asked. Probably doesn’t believe me. Even I didn’t think it would be possible, and yet, it wasn’t all that difficult.

  That, too, bothered her. Inside the palace, she hadn’t encountered a single guard, and the room with the vault wasn’t even locked. She considered the other items stored there. None struck her as particularly valuable—the horn least of all. The safe seemed more like a curio cabinet than a treasure hoard. The most valuable item in it was Bartholomew.

  She waited for the Voice’s response, but all she heard was an annoying clicking sound. Usually, the night noises of peeping frogs and chirping crickets didn’t penetrate so far into the city. The lack of ponds and the presence of only a few grassy areas meant there wasn’t adequate housing for a proper musical troupe. But then again, the clicking didn’t sound like frogs or crickets. Sephryn considered the possibility of cicadas or locusts because the noise was high-pitched, rapid, and coming from everywhere at once. But it was still early spring, too soon for either of those. The clicking was louder, sharper, and more defined. Sephryn had seen shows where southeastern dancers clapped little metal disks in time to music. The instruments were called zills, and they were strapped to the very top of the women’s fingers. The sound she heard now was like that—as if there were thousands of invisible zill-equipped performers competing to see who was the most dexterous.

  Sephryn took a step and peered down the alley that ran between the masquerade shop and an alchemist. The noise was louder down that way. As she looked, Sephryn spotted movement. She was quite gifted at seeing in the dark, and the full moon helped. Even so, the alley was shrouded in overlapping shadows. All she could make out were dark shapes that writhed and undulated in an unpleasant rhythm.

  Maggots. The thought came to her instantly. Sephryn wasn’t squeamish about much, but the pale-white larvae bothered her. The way they moved—squirming over one another to form a writhing, mindless mass—made her skin crawl. That’s what the shapes in the darkness reminded her of as they rocked and shifted.

  Disgusted yet fascinated, she took a step in t
heir direction.

  “Do you have it?” the Voice said in her head.

  Sephryn stopped. Not knowing who or what was in the alley, or if it could hear and understand speech, she turned away and quickly walked down the street. “Yes, but I’m not going to give it to you until I see my son. I want to know he’s alive.” She held her breath. She’d never made a demand of the Voice before and didn’t know what to expect. At the very least, she anticipated outrage. Sephryn cringed in anticipation.

  “Fine. But before that can happen, I’ll require one additional task from you.”

  “What?” Sephryn was pleased she was alone on the street because she said the word far louder than intended. “We had a deal. I already did what you asked.”

  “Be that as it may, events have occurred, and changes must be made.”

  There was something strange about the Voice. Something off, something different. The tone was deeper, and the demeanor was more . . . polite.

  Perhaps that was a good sign. An indication that things would work out. He had agreed to let her see Nurgya, which meant her son was still alive. She couldn’t turn back now. “What is it?”

  “I want you to get your mother’s bow, find a place with a good view of the fountain in front of the palace gates, and when Emperor Nyphron comes out into the square, I want you to kill him.”

  Nolyn rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and waited.

  Amicus and Demetrius were right. Coming here had been a bad idea.

  I should have known better. My father didn’t become emperor of the world by inheriting the title.

  Nolyn glanced at the doors to the little chamber that was freakishly pleasant, even cheerful, with its bouquet of lilies in a white porcelain vase. None of the doors opened, and Nolyn heard no stomping of boots.

  “Sure you don’t want that drink now?” Nyphron asked, walking to a chair with his cup and plopping himself down.