All along the line, man after man cried out as they hammered into nothing at all and collapsed on the cobblestone roadway.
“What’s happening?” Mirk asked.
“Dunno,” Riley replied, fascinated by the bizarre sight of men ramming into nothing. Some even bounced back several feet.
Amicus reached out ahead of him, feeling into the space where the men had stopped. Nothing was there. He took a step forward, and then a few more. Reaching out, he touched the boot of an unconscious Third Spear. “There’s nothing between us.”
The latecomers to the fight saw the pile and stopped. They reached out with swords. Everyone heard the tink when the metal blade struck something hard. Wary of Amicus and his men, they used their hands to feel what their eyes couldn’t see. Amicus watched as spread palms pressed against what looked to be glass, a barrier clear enough to be invisible.
“Sorcery!” someone on the far side declared. “Find a way around.”
The soldiers spread out but found no breach. The archway was sealed. They moved beyond it.
“Circle!” Amicus ordered, concerned their opponents would loop around behind them. None of them were able to, so the bewildered soldiers returned.
“It can’t be like that for the whole city!” a voice said. The white brushed helmet of First Prymus Jareb Tanator appeared, pushing through the turmoil and confusion. He was pointing at Amicus. “You did this!”
“Are you insane? I’m no sorcerer.”
Tanator didn’t look convinced. His eyes shifted around, trying to see the invisible barrier. He reached up and his fingers touched it. He jerked his hand back in shock. “Not a sorcerer, eh? This is awfully convenient, then.”
“I have no idea what’s going on. But it’s not us.”
“Amicus!” Riley called. “Listen!”
From the city streets behind them, a distinct high-speed whine rose. They knew what it was, or at least all of the men who had who had slept in the dark beneath the canopy of the Erbon Forest did. That’s when their nightmares usually came out. Like the jungle cats and flying foxes, ghazel preferred to hunt in the night.
“Not so convenient after all, I think,” Amicus told Tanator. “You’re on the safe side.”
The sound grew louder. Nolyn grabbed his sword and pulled, but the blade stayed stuck in its scabbard. Jerel reached for his own weapon, and it, too, was frozen in its sheath.
“Your swords,” Demetrius said, “aren’t covered in the Orinfar, and I prefer not being stabbed. It’s a shame DeMardefeld got the tattoos. I would have enjoyed popping him right in front of you.”
“Who are you?” Nolyn stepped away from the palatus.
“Well, I’m certainly not Demetrius.”
The palatus’s face turned sinister, and a horrible chill ran up Nolyn’s spine.
“We need to get back to the others and rally the legions,” Jerel said.
Demetrius chuckled. “I wouldn’t expect much help from them. They can’t get in.”
“You’re an Artist, a wielder of magic,” Nolyn said. “You’re doing this.”
The palatus shook his head. “Mostly, but not all.” He jerked his head toward the growing sound of clicking claws coming from the creatures still hidden in the shadows. “The Blind Ones have the Art. Terribly crude, you understand, although they’re much better at it now. I had to teach them proper techniques other than using those disgusting leaves they usually burn.” He shuddered. “Doing so was part of their price—as was this city. I mean, it’s not like they’re going to work for free, after all.”
Demetrius pointed at the sky, where clouds turned morning into dusk. “They did that. They love being able to make the sun disappear. And they sealed the city. No one can come in, and no one can leave. And every Rhune, Fhrey, and Dherg trapped inside will die. Nyphron isn’t the only one who can yoke a civilization to do his bidding—to fight his war for him. Oh, look, here are some now.”
A score of ghazel entered the square. Nolyn pulled again on his sword, then on his dagger. Neither came free. “They’re going to kill you, too, you know.”
“Don’t think so,” Demetrius said, and with a wave of his hand, he transformed from a prim palatus into a Ba Ran ghazel.
Nyphron set down his cup of wine when he heard the sound of bells in the city and rushing feet coming down the corridor.
“Your Eminence,” Plymerath said, bursting into the room, “we’re under attack.”
“The legions?” Nyphron asked, surprised.
For a moment, he wondered if he’d underestimated his son. Perhaps Nolyn had outplayed him after all. In that instant, he discovered a strange sense of pride.
“No, sir,” Plymerath said. “Ghazel.”
“What?” The very idea was absurd, and he began to laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, sir. Reports say they are coming up out of the sewers, wells, bathhouses, and city gutters.”
“Amazing,” Nyphron said. “And really bad timing for them as we just happen to have two full legions waiting outside. Order them into the city and have—”
“Can’t, sir. There’s a barrier, an invisible wall keeping us in and them out. Several people have reported seeing a ring of dancing ghazel in the Imperial Arena.”
“Oberdaza.”
Plymerath nodded. “We’re on our own, sir, and . . . we are seriously outnumbered. The city guard is fighting in the streets, mostly along the Grand Mar, and losing ground block by block. Outside, the palace guard is forming, but so are the ghazel. The guard won’t win. The ghazel seem to be headed this way.”
Plymerath looked at the cup of wine on the table.
Nyphron also noticed it. He had placed it near the edge—precariously so. “Order the Instarya to arms. Have my armor brought here. It’s time to clean off the dust.”
Plymerath hesitated, still staring at the cup. “Maybe you’d like to set that cup a bit—”
“I’m not planning a blaze of glory, Plym. You said there’s a ring of oberdaza in the arena. We just need to get to them. If we break that ring, the legions will do the rest. It’ll be like old times. I have a feeling this will be the best Founder’s Day ever.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Founder’s Day
Sephryn didn’t want to run into anyone who might ask what she was up to, so she approached Imperial Square taking backstreets but avoiding alleys. The alleys had worried her ever since hearing the sounds near the masquerade shop that left her feeling something wasn’t right, and she wasn’t going anywhere near those sounds.
Avoiding unexpected encounters with neighbors was important because in one hand Sephryn carried a bundle of arrows, while in the other she held the long bow her mother had named Audrey. The bow had needed a new string, and she found one—a good one—at the East Market where merchants were already putting the finishing touches on their Founder’s Day decorations. Missing her purse, Sephryn traded her shoes for the string. They had been good, reliable shoes; she hoped the string was, too. She got arrows as well, a score of bodkins on credit from the same fletcher who now owned her shoes. There were only four of the old arrows, and she might need additional tries. Blackened from age, The Four had burned-in symbols carved on their shafts that created a word Sephryn couldn’t pronounce. Moya never shot The Four in Sephryn’s presence and wouldn’t even let her daughter touch them. Her mother had kept the set in an elaborate mahogany case, like holy relics. According to Moya, these weren’t old arrows. These were supposedly The Original Arrows—or as her mother called them the a . . . rows. Why she pronounced the word that way wasn’t ever explained. Whenever Sephryn asked, her mother would only smile. Moya had said these were the first arrows ever made. Crafted by Roan of Rhen, these had been the ones Sephryn’s mother had used to destroy Balgargarath, the demon beneath the dwarven city of Neith. Of course, her mother never called it a dwarven city; she’d always said Dherg city. But Moya wasn’t known for being polite.
“That’s what we called them back then. Everyo
ne called them that. Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady! You don’t know everything and—you can trust me on this—you don’t want to, either.”
Walking as fast as she could—running would draw too much attention—Sephryn realized the latent wisdom in those words. She already knew too much: like where she was going and what she was about to do. Some people bit their tongues to stop themselves from talking; Sephryn remembered her mother to prevent herself from thinking.
One of “The Four” had been the arrow that was used to kill Udgar, the Gula chieftain who had challenged Persephone for the right to rule the Ten Clans. Sephryn believed that story because Persephone herself had confirmed it, and Sephryn never had trouble trusting her namesake. Maybe that faith was due to Persephone being the empress or because she didn’t use offensive slurs like Dherg. But most likely, it was because Persephone had never slapped her child when drunk.
Sephryn’s bare feet began to hurt from the hard impact of her rapid heel-toe race on the brick street. She followed the northwestern thoroughfare, Morton Whipple Way, toward Imperial Square, then turned at Lipton Street, weaving through the deserted maze of buildings closed for the holiday, and finally worked her way across Ferry Street, aiming for the back side of the Aguanon.
I’m about to use my mother’s bow and her a . . . rows to kill the emperor. The infinite levels of wrongness in the act were making Sephryn sick. She could feel her stomach cramp, and there was the faint kiss of nausea lingering in the background, like a suitor waiting to ask her to dance.
My mother was Persephone’s Shield, the old-fashioned term for bodyguard, and now I’m about to murder my namesake’s husband. She glanced up at the sky. If the gods don’t want me to kill him, they’ll find a way to stop me.
Overhead, clouds were rolling in, one on another: a bed of blankets like a winter storm. Sephryn had never seen clouds like these before. They traveled fast, exploding in volume and density, and they were darker than any she could remember. Morning had arrived, but she could hardly tell. The city lay beneath a vast shadow, the promise of dawn snuffed out in favor of a continuing night.
Maybe they will stop me.
She moved through the little garden and hopped the wall behind the Aguanon—Percepliquis’s Temple of Ferrol. The building with its grand dome stood on the east side of Imperial Square. In the center of the square was the great Ulurium Fountain; beyond it to the west, the palace gate lay. The plaza-side roof of the temple at the base of the dome provided a grand view of the entire square. Long ago, she’d found a hiding space—a little crook formed by a gable that provided access to the exterior base of the dome. It had always been her deserted island surrounded by the ocean that was the city, Sephryn’s secret place, a refuge that was hers alone. Only once had she ever shared it. Nolyn didn’t know it at the time, but taking him there had been a declaration of Sephryn’s love.
But this is Founder’s Day. People always swarm the plaza and dangle from balconies. Someone might go up there to watch the parade. What will I do then?
Worry about that if it happens—I have too much on my shoulders right now. Let’s not add more!
She approached the temple from the back. Slinging the bow and sack of arrows over her shoulder, she entered the garden and climbed the old poplar tree. That had been the third yellow poplar to be planted there since Sephryn had begun using them to access the roof. The first one had been perfect; its branches extended directly to the eaves of the temple. The second had been the worst; its limbs were too short, making a dangerous jump necessary. The current one was better, but not great. Sephryn had to balance on a branch and stretch a long way to grab hold of the iron ornamentation. Lifting herself onto the sloping slate shingles, she climbed to the dome.
Nothing had changed.
She’d come there the day Persephone had died, and again when Suri passed. She had wanted to come after her mother’s death, but that time had been “between trees,” and the little sapling wasn’t up to the task. Everything had felt like it was dying back then, and she was exiled from her secret shelter. Later, that same sapling had grown tall enough so that she was able to find solace again after Nolyn left for the Goblin Wars. The last time she’d climbed that tree was the day she and Nolyn argued—the last time she’d seen him. Sephryn had since vowed never to return. She was going to become a mother. Having a child meant she couldn’t run away from problems anymore, even for a little while. She had to put away childish things, and a secret place to hide from the world was most certainly one of those—at least until it became the ideal place from which to assassinate the emperor.
No one was there. Even the broken tile from her last visit was still cracked.
If only this was then, I would climb down and tell Nolyn about his son and say I was sorry. Maybe then—maybe if I had done that—none of this would have happened.
She settled in. Her body knew where to go, all of it so familiar. Her refuge from storms didn’t conjure fond memories. Like the intended comfort from the fragrance of flowers at a funeral, the familiarity welcomed her back with centuries of grief. Today was no exception. In many ways, Sephryn felt her entire life had been leading to this moment, this act.
What if there are demands for my execution? The Fhrey of Merredydd will likely demand my head on a platter. For Nolyn to prove himself to be a fair and just ruler, he’ll have to ensure that justice is handed down. It’s good that he’s here. I’ll have time to make sure our son is safe in his care before I die. Nolyn will come to see me. Yes, he will do that. I can tell him then. Even if he doesn’t, Seymour will make sure he finds out. Meeting that monk has been a blessing. I’ll leave the house to him. He can use it to start his . . . whatever.
But first I have to save Nurgya.
She bent the bow and tried to hook the new string. It didn’t go easily. Audrey fought her. In the end, Sephryn braced the wood between her thighs and threw her full weight into the task. Finally, the loop took hold, and the string held.
Out in front and down below, the dark plaza was coming alive. Being Founder’s Day morning, the plaza would soon fill with crowds of celebrants. Sephryn could see movement and hear a multitude approaching the square.
Sephryn picked up a bodkin. She looked at it, then set it down.
Why else had The Four been preserved if not for this?
Sephryn picked up one of the blackened shafts. The thing was crude. It had three feathers, but there had been a fourth that was torn off.
This is the one Moya used to kill the demon.
Sephryn fitted the nock in the string. She imagined her mother so long ago. Sephryn could see her trapped in the cave at the bottom of the world holding Audrey and that arrow as the giant demon charged. Steadfast and courageous, a woman in her prime.
Sephryn didn’t feel like any of those things.
From her height at the base of the dome, she could see over the palace wall as Emperor Nyphron, dressed in bronze armor, stepped out. As she watched, he crossed the courtyard and then paused just inside the wall at the gate, looking out at Imperial Square. There were others with him, all of whom seemed to be preparing for some sort of holiday event.
If he gets anywhere near the fountain . . .
“I bet you can. I’m sure you’re incredible.”
A shaft of light broke through the thick clouds, and the metal breastplate shone just like it did in that painting depicting him slaying the beast—armor that she knew the a . . . row couldn’t punch through.
Dressed in his old armor, Nyphron stood at the gate, looking out at Imperial Plaza. The chest plate still fit, but the girdle was a bit tight. He remembered the suit being more comfortable. In ages past, he’d made a habit of sleeping in his gear.
How did I do that? Why did I do that?
Around him, Instarya warriors gathered, each checking their own armor and weapons. Battle was something none of them had played at in centuries, and their old toys seemed unfamiliar. Most of the faces were foreign to him as well. These were the s
ons and grandsons of those few Instarya who had populated the four frontier outposts: Alon Rhist, Seon Hall, Ervanon, and Merredydd. Most, like Sikar and Tekchin, had settled in Merredydd to avoid the rising sea of humans. Nyphron knew only a few of these warriors. Illim stood beside him. Plymerath and his grandson stood beside Anyval’s son Vigish, and Elysan’s son Milyion. Sikar was also nearby, and around him was his court: all young—young and pale. This generation of Instarya had not lived in the field; they hadn’t grown up using sword and dagger daily. One was trying to put his breastplate on backward. Another had his sword on the wrong hip.
What has become of the Instarya?
Two more showed up late and without armor. These wore pallium robes, which resembled asicas. The young reveled in the old Erivan culture: the eastern rhetoric, the religion, political systems, and love of leisure—and the hatred of humans.
Perhaps Nolyn is right. Maybe too much of the old world has seeped into the new. These Fhrey have spent centuries in comfort, lounging within villas and wine bottles. I fought to save them from the depravity of the Miralyith, and now they have become something even more useless—all the decadence, none of the Art.
The clicking chatter of the ghazel wafted into the plaza, the sound preceding their arrival. The inexperienced thought the sound was a form of language—that the goblins were like crickets or crows. In truth, the Blind Ones were rattlesnakes. The loud whine was their version of hammering hilt against shield. That was their way of boosting morale and intimidating their enemy. And they certainly excelled at invoking terror. Their painted masks and armor made them look like beasts from nightmares. But underneath, the ghazel weren’t much different from humans, Fhrey, or Dherg.
Nyphron reflected upon the virtues of each race: Fhrey were blessed with cunning, beauty, and grace; Dherg had skill and determination; humans could overwhelm their enemies with vast numbers. But the ghazel had no merits of their own. Instead, these bastards of the lot stole their advantages. Ghazel possessed the cunning of the Fhrey, the tenacity of the Dherg, and the proliferation of the humans. With each of these strengths, they made formidable foes.
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