“That explains it,” Myth said. “These are cheap imported imitations. Must be on sale. Buy one, get one free, no doubt.”
“What are they doing here?” Smirch asked. The air was morning-cool, and the clouds blocked any direct sun, but Smirch also took advantage of the pause to clean his hands and wipe his brow.
“I think they were invited,” Nolyn said.
“By who?” Amicus asked.
“Mawyndulë.”
“Who’s that?”
“Someone bad,” Nolyn replied, “A Miralyith prince with a grudge against my father, and apparently me as well.”
“Is he the one keeping the legions out?” Riley asked.
From the ranks of the nearby goblins, a horn sounded—a long, lone, high-pitched note.
Nolyn shook his head. “Oberdaza are somewhere in the city. Quite a few, I suspect, to manage this.”
“And that’s not entirely a bad thing,” Myth said. “We don’t want them.”
“Really?” Nolyn said. “Bravado is one thing, but—”
“Oh, it’s not that, sir. The legion wants to kill us,” Riley explained. “That’s how we got here—running from them.”
“Oh,” Nolyn replied. He didn’t know what else to say. What could be said when trapped between two armies united by a common desire for their deaths?
Answering the call of the horn, more than a hundred ghazel from the center of the city joined the horde, surrounding the Teshlors.
Amicus sighed. “At first, I thought the legion’s inability to reach us was a good thing. Now, I’m not so sure.”
The moment Sephryn let go of the string, she knew the flight of the arrow was perfect. It traveled with a predestined precision, as if gods guided it home. For all her protests, Augustine Brinkle had the right of it. Sephryn was better than her mother at archery. She could have aimed for a thigh, or shoulder—even the hand holding the sword. She didn’t. Fear, compressed into a split-second decision, had demanded a deadly blow. Sephryn had been in love with Nolyn since the age of thirteen, and there was never any doubt she would die for him. Until that moment, however, Sephryn had no idea she would also kill.
The arrow pierced the one bit of exposed flesh, lodging halfway through Nyphron’s throat. The emperor continued to stand for only a scattered dash of seconds, then crumpled to the stone pavement. At first, no one noticed. His fellow Instarya continued to fight, pressing the attack. A cry went up, first from the Fhrey, then from the ghazel. The disciplined advance was replaced by wild fury. The line between sides shattered.
In a blind rage, each Instarya slaughtered a dozen or more ghazel. They became clear circles in the ocean of goblins, but those circles drifted apart until they appeared as isolated islands upon which unrelenting waves crashed. Then the islands were overwhelmed, one after another.
Sephryn nocked another arrow, seeking a glimpse of Nolyn and ready to kill any threat. But with the death of the last Instarya, a horn sounded, and the goblins moved off. They flowed out of the central square, dividing into small groups. From the top of the Aguanon, it was like seeing a sink drain. That’s when she saw him. Nolyn lay on the ground beside his father, left for dead by the receding goblin horde.
Sephryn grabbed her satchel of arrows and leapt for the branches of the poplar tree. She was nearly to the bottom when she discovered two remarkable things. The first was that she hadn’t instantly killed Nyphron. The emperor must have lingered because the second realization arrived when she reached the base of the tree and discovered that Ferrol’s Law wasn’t a myth.
Sephryn felt her soul leave with the suddenness of a snapping bowstring, a sharp recoil. With its departure came the cold. Unlike anything she’d felt before, it issued from within. The sensation was so sudden and powerful that she missed her footing and fell to the tree’s roots, hitting her knee and cutting her cheek on the last branch. She lay there, gasping for more than merely air. Part of her had slipped away. She struggled to suck it back in, but no amount of effort could draw back what she’d lost.
The scene of Kendel’s death flashed in her mind.
“Don’t forget Ferrol’s Law. You can’t kill another Fhrey.”
“But she’s—”
“Even a single drop of Fhrey blood is enough. It’s not worth sacrificing your immortal spirit. You’ll be forever barred from entering the afterlife.”
Dearest Mari, what have I done? That thought was instantly replaced by another. Nolyn!
Pushing to her feet, Sephryn grabbed the bow and sack of arrows before running as best she could toward the corner of the building and the plaza beyond. The Temple of Ferrol, which had been a refuge to hide in during the worst moments of her life, was now seen through different eyes. She felt hollow and abandoned by a god she had never worshiped.
With blood tearing down her cheek and limping from her bashed knee, Sephryn crossed the now-empty, body-strewn plaza. Nolyn had a black bruise forming on his cheek, but . . . he’s still alive!
“Nolyn!” she cried.
Dropping the bow and arrows, she reached out to embrace him.
Shuddering and pushing away, his eyes shot open. Glaring at her with a cruel, vicious expression, he shouted, “Don’t touch me!”
She stopped with arms still out. “Nolyn, I’m sorry.” She glanced at Nyphron’s body, the arrow still in his throat. “He was going to kill you.”
He blinked several times, then shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. Nolyn looked at his father, then the arrow and, finally, at the bow she had dropped. “Yes . . . yes, he was. So it was you, then? You saved my life?”
“Yes.” The word fell from her mouth.
Nolyn reached out and touched his father’s cheek. “He really is dead, isn’t he?”
Sephryn put a palm to her own chest that felt like a wind-whistling cavern. “Yes,” she said again. The bitterness of the word grew worse with each utterance.
“I did it. I succeeded. Trilos was right. I got my revenge.” Nolyn looked at her. A smile bloomed across his face. “Where is the horn?”
“What? How do you know about . . .” Sephryn stared at him.
“You went to get it last night. So where is it?”
No. No, it’s not possible. Nolyn isn’t the Voice.
Sephryn looked at Nolyn’s wrist where he had always worn the braided bracelet she’d given him; it was bare. Even after their last terrible fight, he wouldn’t have taken it off. “You’re not Nolyn. You’re the Voice from inside my head!”
“Doesn’t take a genius, does it?” As he spoke, the visage of Nolyn faded and another person sat before her. A Fhrey—a bald one. He looked to be near her own age and had thin lips, cold eyes, and the bruise was now swelling one eye. “Yes, it was me. I tried to get Nolyn to kill his father because that would have been so perfect. But when he refused, I had to take matters into my own hands.” He looked at Nyphron’s body once more. “I suppose I should thank you, but killing him isn’t what I asked of you. Now that he’s dead, I need that horn. Where is it?”
Sephryn couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The shock and the devastation was too overwhelming.
No. No, it’s not possible. I killed the emperor to save Nolyn. I didn’t sacrifice my soul for—
“Did you steal it or not?” The Fhrey stood, dusting off his hands. He surveyed the square and the bodies that lay scattered like the floor of the fish market after a net drop. Again, he smiled and added what looked like a self-satisfied nod. “Well?”
“I—yes. But you can’t have it, not yet. I told you.”
“Told me what?”
“That I have to see my son first.”
“You never made any such demand.”
“I did!” she yelled at him, causing the Fhrey to flinch. “When you told me to kill Nyphron.” She stopped. Sephryn was emptied of her soul, but anger was rapidly filling that void.
The Fhrey looked confused and asked, “When I told you what?” Then recognition spread across his face, and he muttered, “T
rilos.” He spoke the word as if it solved a complicated mystery or held great meaning, but the name meant nothing to her.
The Fhrey smiled. “The horn isn’t in the sack, is it? Of course not. You came here to kill the emperor and expected to be caught. You couldn’t risk having the horn taken. So where did you put it? I doubt you would stash it in a cupboard. You left it with someone—a person you trusted—just in case you died.”
“If you want it, then prove my son is alive,” she growled through clenched teeth.
The Fhrey ignored her and continued on, “My old mentor is involved. He’s the one who convinced you to kill Nyphron. But why? He’s never aided my plans before, always seemed indifferent to them. I’m not complaining but . . . why did he help me this time?” The Fhrey’s eyes widened. “The Invisible Hand. Of course! Trilos is trying to lure his brother into the open. That makes sense. He wasn’t trying to help me at all. He used me and my plan. All he cares about is that I’m a catalyst for chaos. He wanted me to . . . to . . . what is that phrase he’s always using? Oh yes, make the world wobble. But why kill Nyphron? And why use you?”
He looked at Sephryn, as if she would provide him an answer. She had none and didn’t even know what he was blathering about. All she wanted was for him to take her to Nurgya.
The Fhrey clapped his hands together. “I’ve got it!” he said excitedly. “Trilos is using the horn as bait. He’s betting Turin—that’s his estranged brother—will come out of hiding to protect the horn and keep me from blowing it. That’s logical, especially considering he’s done that exact same thing before. If Nyphron still lived, the horn would be useless, and Turin would have no reason to butt in. Trilos knew that the emperor’s death had to happen.” The bald Fhrey grinned. “So, that means Trilos’s brother has inserted himself in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time. You unknowingly gave the horn to him, the Invisible Hand. That’s how Trilos will find him!”
“I don’t know anyone named Turin,” Sephryn snapped. “And I don’t care about any culling horn, the loss of my soul, or that Nyphron is dead. The only thing that matters is my son. Now tell me. Is he—”
“Oh, well, I don’t know Turin, either, but Trilos goes on and on about him all the time. He’s been hunting his brother for centuries. If Turin actually exists, he’s a canny fellow. He goes by different names. The most recent was Malcolm.”
“Malcolm? Ancient Malcolm?” she asked out of reflex.
He’s trying to confuse me, so I’ll reveal something—probably the whereabouts of—Sephryn stopped herself. Can the Voice hear my thoughts? Can Miralyith do that?
“He’s probably going by a new name. Who did you give the horn to? Not many options, are there? You couldn’t talk to anyone new.” He tapped a finger to his head. “You never know who might be watching, am I right? So, let’s see. Was it Errol?” He shook his naked head. “No, too risky. You can’t trust him. Arvis? No, she’s not responsible enough. So that leaves—that monk!” The Fhrey clapped his hands together again. “How did I not see that?” He grinned in triumph.
“I didn’t give it to anyone,” Sephryn declared. “I hid it.”
The Fhrey laughed. “You’re lying. First murder, now dishonesty. You’re falling down that slippery slope, aren’t you? But knowing who has it isn’t nearly as important as where they are. I suppose there’s only one logical place. Somewhere that magic can’t enter, isn’t that right?”
“I’ll get it for you, I promise. But you must take me to Nurgya. Right now!” she shouted, then reached for the bow.
“Can’t.”
The single word landed like a weapon’s blow.
“Why not?” The words escaped her lips barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know where the body is. It’s likely there isn’t one. Not anymore.”
Sephryn’s mind spun. “What are you saying?”
“The kid is dead. Mica was instructed to keep him alive until today, just in case you demanded to see him. Dawn on Founder’s Day was the deadline I gave her. This invasion was planned months in advance.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh, the trouble I went through. When Mica told me that Nurgya was Nolyn’s son—” He paused, watching her reaction. “What? You thought she didn’t know? That old woman wasn’t stupid, just extremely willing to believe she’d been singled out by the god she worshiped. A few demonstrations of the Art sealed the deal. But you shouldn’t judge her too harshly. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that all humans believed in the divinity of my kind. But I’m off topic, aren’t I? Anyway, since Nurgya is an heir of Nyphron’s, he had to die. If any seed from Nyphron exists, then they inherit the throne, and I can only challenge. But if everyone from the Nyphronian line is dead, I can blow the horn and ascend to the throne unopposed. You see, the Fhrey have come to learn that opposing a Miralyith isn’t such a smart idea. And thanks to Nyphron, all of the others in my clan are on the far side of the Nidwalden, and none of them can arrive in time.”
Sephryn had barely heard any of the words after the first. Her head spun. She didn’t know where she found the breath to speak but she had to ask. “Are you sure he’s dead? You said you didn’t see his body, so there’s a chance that—”
The Miralyith shook his head. “No, there’s not. Mica follows my instructions with an understandably exuberant zeal. But on the off chance she couldn’t follow through, I had a contingency plan. There’s a reason I set Mica’s deadline for today. Her little hidey-hole is in the sewers. And the ghazel would have discovered it as they made their way here. For them, the youngest of your kind is considered a great delicacy. For his sake, I hope Mica found enough courage because my instructions would make your son’s death quick and relatively painless. Hers . . . not so much.”
The Miralyith got up, smoothed out his rumpled asica, and said, “Now, since our business is concluded, I need to get going. While I doubt Trilos would deny me the horn, I think it’s best that I get to it first.” With that, he turned his back to her and walked in the direction of the palace.
Sephryn pulled an arrow from the sack.
Without turning, the Fhrey snapped his fingers, and Audrey’s string broke.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Horn
Just like the city streets, the palace grounds were empty. All the little humans were cowering in their homes, behind their feeble wooden doors. Mawyndulë was surprised so few had poked their noses out. Granted, it was still early, and being Founder’s Day, many might be sleeping in, having breakfast, or taking time to dress in their best. He didn’t especially care. The fates of the human race as well as of the ghazel were on his list, but near the bottom. Once the city was taken, the ghazel would loot and torch it. While it burned, they would slip back down the sewers and into the ancient caverns beneath the city. Returning to their ships, which waited on the underground sea, they would set sail for their homeland. That was the plan, and a fine one, Mawyndulë thought.
Nyphron and Nurgya were dead, and by now Nolyn would be, too. All that remained was getting the horn. Percepliquis and the ghazel were but bit players in a grander performance. He was the main character in the tale of snatching triumph from tragedy. He would finally have his day in the sun—he looked up—or thick clouds, at least.
Mawyndulë honestly had no idea if a frenzied army of goblins would think twice about killing a bald Fhrey, should they see him. In his dealings with Zula Bar, Mawyndulë had taken the form of a ghazel oberdaza. That had been more than a nightmare. Urlineus was a resort when compared with the ghazel stronghold of Aoz Hilus. Just being there was dangerous. Mawyndulë had maintained the illusion for weeks, canceling it only when he slept in a tiny crevice of a dark cave. The weave wasn’t particularly difficult—a task he relegated to the back of his mind—but it was a pretense he couldn’t afford to drop.
He could, and would, resume the ghazel disguise to escape Percepliquis’s impending inferno, but no spells were possible within the walls of the palace grounds, so his timing was important.
/> Approaching the gates, Mawyndulë knew what was coming, and he dreaded it the same way he would hate jumping into a lake of cold water. Even when prepared, passing through the entrance was a terrifying experience. Crossing the threshold, the runes stripped away his access to the Art, cutting him off from the world.
Mawyndulë had experienced something similar when a rogue wave flipped a boat that he had been riding in. He went completely underwater, and the capsized vessel blocked the sunlight. The moment he sensed there was something solid between him and the surface, he panicked. Being trapped and unable to reach air was beyond horrifying. He felt isolated, stripped of power, and vulnerable. Inside the walls of the palace, he felt as desperate as he had under the boat. Despite knowing that the sensation of drowning was all in his head, Mawyndulë still struggled to breathe.
Mawyndulë paused just inside, trying to determine which way to go. He began wandering around the gardens of the courtyard. His first inclination was to look for it in the palace proper. He entered and looked around, but then he recalled a conversation he had heard between Sephryn and Seymour. He had often used the Art to eavesdrop on Sephryn, at least until his sea voyage on the Stryker. While aboard that cursed ship, he had been sick beyond imagining and couldn’t have cared less what she was up to. But in the beginning, he had listened to her for hours. For most of his time in Urlineus, he had been waiting for news of Nolyn’s death to arrive. During that period, Mawyndulë made himself appear like a legion officer—what rank exactly, he hadn’t a clue; he wasn’t that interested. He mainly hid in the cool of a storeroom, his bunkmates barrels of wine. Lost in the shadows, he focused on Sephryn and listened in on her life in Percepliquis.
Most of it was dreadfully dull. Sephryn didn’t live a grand existence. He wasn’t listening for anything in particular, just gathering information and guessing he might hear something important, or at least useful. Standing inside the gate of the palace, he puzzled out where to go.
Nolyn Page 34
