But what if Mica had felt she had equally good reasons for what she did? What if she had been just as convinced that Nurgya would be a horrible emperor? And what might the Miralyith have promised her? Perhaps Mica also thought the weight of the world rested on her actions.
Since the attack, many people were calling her a hero. The citizenry’s praise just made her feel worse. The wrestling match Sephryn had held with her conscience through the days of mourning had made her wedding feel less celebratory. Nurgya’s return, however, made everything bearable. She was overjoyed that he appeared none the worse for wear, but even more important than that, his survival spoke to a greater truth. The stranger’s promise—that had seemed so preposterous—was now inexplicably plausible because of the miracle of her son’s life.
Was it really Malcolm? And did he have a hand in getting Arvis to save Nurgya?
“Your life can be wondrous, and you’ll receive everything you always wanted.”
While no one knew the life span of a dual-heritage descendant, Sephryn didn’t feel old, and she, Nurgya, and Nolyn would likely have centuries together. Like Persephone before her, Sephryn would finally be able to make real changes, helping to unite humans and Fhrey. These improvements would outlive her, so she would have a lasting impact on the world. Sephryn’s soul wasn’t lost so much as spent. Her eternity had paid for the future happiness of millions. Barred from the afterlife, she had just one regret. She would never be able to apologize to Nolyn, Nyphron, or her mother.
The wedding would take place first, and then the coronation would immediately follow so that Nolyn and Sephryn could be presented to the city as emperor and empress. Neither ceremony would be performed in the Temple of Ferrol. Old traditions were being swept away, a sign that humans and Fhrey stood on even footing. A sentence was added to the official ceremonial text: “These two bridges will unite the empyre’s races.” Sephryn had suggested the idea, and Nolyn had agreed.
The final touches were being applied to Sephryn’s stunning dual-purpose wedding and coronation garment. Her son was alive, safe, and happily playing on the floor with his three nursemaids. And Arvis, who was now the child’s official bodyguard, watched them. Sephryn stood because sitting was impossible in the elaborate construction that the imperial tailor had referred to as a dress. She waited for the bell that would summon her to the ceremonies that, until then, had always seemed like an impossible dream. The day was bright, the sky blue. Birds sang, and trees flowered. After three days of official mourning, and having been cheated of their Founder’s Day festivities, the people of the city were ready to celebrate.
A knock on the door made Sephryn jump.
Arvis opened it.
“Is she decent?” Sephryn heard the familiar voice of her father, and she wanted to rush forward. The dress restrained her.
“Who’s asking?” Arvis replied, not the least bit intimidated, although she should have been.
Tekchin, now the last of the Galantians still walking the face of Elan, was a different sort of being. An Instarya of the old order, he was the last of those said to have died, entered the underworld, and returned to tell the tale. Normal rules didn’t apply to him; to hear her father talk, they never had. He knew it, and so did everyone else—except Arvis. She stood her ground and fixed him with a threatening stare, but the woman could no more stop Tekchin than she could halt time.
Dressed in a loose shirt and traveling cloak, he strode in and hugged his daughter. He lifted Sephryn up and carried her around like she was ten. “Look at you, my little star!”
It had been centuries since he had called her that. “You’re here!” she cried.
“Would have been here sooner, but . . .” He paused.
“What?”
Tekchin put her down and shook his head with a disbelieving grin. “There was this fella in the middle of the road halfway here. He waved me down and asked if I was Tekchin. Never saw him before, but when he confirmed who I was, he said I had to give him a ride back to Merredydd.”
“A ride? You came by horse? But you hate horses.”
“Not this one. His name is Feranza. He has a great temperament. Anyway, I told him I couldn’t because I was heading to Percepliquis for Founder’s Day and to visit my daughter and meet my new grandson.”
“Oh! You got my message?”
“I did.”
“Couldn’t have come a month ago?”
“Can I get back to my story?”
She folded her arms and frowned, but then she nodded.
“Well, this guy said he normally wouldn’t care about my plans, but . . . and this is where the story gets odd . . . he said a guy paid him good money, and would give him even more, if he could convince a Fhrey named Tekchin to give him a ride to Merredydd.”
“And you did?” Sephryn narrowed her eyes. She knew her father, and only one thing had ever deterred him from a goal, and Moya was dead. “Why?”
“Because when I asked who the guy was, he said his name was . . . Malcolm.”
“Really? You mean as in—the Malcolm? The mystery man that you and Mother always talked about?”
“I was wondering the same, so I asked what this Malcolm guy looked like, and he described him as a tall, gangly man without a beard who had a long nose, sharp cheeks, clever eyes, and a kind face.”
“Did he say what he was wearing? Was it a simple off-white tunic and a tattered hood?”
Tekchin’s brows rose. “You’ve seen him, too?”
Sephryn started to speak but closed her mouth. There was too much to say, and too much she couldn’t.
Tekchin stared at her a moment, and when she didn’t say any more, he went on. “So, I dropped Keenan—that was the fella’s name—in Merredydd, thinking Malcolm might be there. To be honest, I was a bit apprehensive.”
“Because Malcolm visits old friends just before they die?”
Her father touched the tip of her nose with a finger. “Exactly. But Malcolm wasn’t there. I looked around, found nothing, and so I climbed back on Feranza and came here. Turns out I missed a few momentous events, but . . .” He took a step back, appraising the dress. “I got here in time for this. Your mother would torment me for all eternity if I hadn’t.”
Looking toward Nurgya, Tekchin smiled. “Is this my grandson? He looks—” He crossed to the child, lifted him up with one hand, and nestled him in the crook of his arm when the child appeared frozen in fear.
Sephryn started to cry.
“What’s wrong?”
Sephryn shook her head. “I’m just . . .” She wiped away a tear. “A lot has happened. Nyphron is dead.”
“I’ve heard.” He returned to Sephryn and wiped her tears. “The thing to keep in mind is that there was no better way for Nyphron to die. He was Instarya and a Galantian. We should never die in a bed.”
“It wasn’t just him,” she said. “A lot of people died, many of the Instarya. Sikar survived, but Illim and Plymerath were killed.”
Tekchin nodded. “I heard that, too. I spoke to Sikar on the way in. Looks like he’ll recover. Hard to kill Sikar, but they came close. Best as I can figure, that was why Keenan was standing on the road. Otherwise, I would have been in that square. Not sure if I’m pleased or upset about that. On the one hand, it would have been a grand way to go, but on the other . . .” He hefted the boy in the air. “I’d have missed meeting this little guy. So why the tears? Were you that close to Nyphron?”
“Not really, but a close friend of mine, Seymour Destone, was killed. He reminded me a lot of Bran, who won’t be at my wedding. And now, neither will Seymour.”
He wiped her tears again.
“You know, it’s strange, but you look so much like your mother right now.”
“It’s just because I’m older.”
“Don’t think so. Even now, I only remember your mother the way she was back in Dahl Rhen.” His eyes smiled. “Pretty and smart, with those big doe eyes of hers.”
“Doe eyes? Seriously?”
; “See!” He grinned and pointed at her. “There you are, just like her. I know you don’t think that’s a compliment, but you should.” He played with Nurgya, who wanted to grab his finger. “You’ll see. When you meet her again, when you’re sitting in Mideon’s great hall, you two will chat, and you’ll learn the truth and understand everything.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “We don’t need to talk; I already know.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Tekchin handed the child to Arvis.
Where’s the damn bell? Sephryn was terrified he might be able to see—notice that there was nothing inside. She had to say something, needed to distract her father for fear he’d draw out the truth and cause her to ruin everything. “How much do you know about what happened here?”
“The city was attacked by ghazel; Nyphron and the Instarya defended the palace; Sikar was nearly killed and most of the Instarya died; magic was keeping the legions out, and you used your mother’s bow to kill the oberdaza who were casting the spell.” He smiled. “Oh, and Nolyn and a band of soldiers, who interestingly call themselves Teshlors, kept the city from destruction until the legions could enter.”
“You didn’t mention that the ghazel were invited in.”
“Really? By whom?”
“A Miralyith named Mawyndulë, who was seeking revenge. He kidnapped my son.” She pointed at Nurgya. Arvis, who was looking up at them, nodded. “To get Nurgya back, I had to bring him a relic called the Horn of Gylindora. Do you know what that is?”
Tekchin hesitated.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Tekchin smiled at Arvis. “What’s your name?”
“Arvis,” she said suspiciously.
“Arvis, why don’t you and these other ladies take Nurgya out for a stroll or something? I’d like a word alone with my daughter before I give her away forever.”
“Well?” she asked after Arvis and the nursemaids had slipped out the door.
Tekchin continued to stare at his daughter. “What do you know about the horn?”
“Not a lot. Just that it’s old and was used to determine who rules the Fhrey. And that it can only be blown once every three thousand years or after the death of a ruler—a period known as the Uli Vermar.” She had no idea if she’d pronounced that correctly, or if Seymour had, or even if it had been him who’d told her. So much of the last few days was still whirling in her head.
Tekchin nodded, suggesting she was close enough. “That’s how the Great War ended, and Nyphron became emperor. Nyphron blew it, and Mawyndulë challenged him. Nyphron spared the Fhrey prince’s life. Not sure why.” His tone lacked the normal Galantian exuberance and bravado. He practically whispered.
Tekchin’s taciturn response left Sephryn with a growing unease. “The reason I brought the subject up is because Mawyndulë has the horn. Is that a problem?”
“It would be if he really had it.”
Sephryn frowned and hung her head. “Unfortunately, he does. I’m the one who stole it from Nyphron’s vault and gave it to him.”
“Nyphron wasn’t a fool. The Horn of Gylindora was never in his vault. That was a fake, put there for exactly this reason. The real horn is safe and sound.”
“Oh, good,” she said, and placed a hand to her chest letting out a sigh. “That’s a relief. I thought there might be a problem.”
“There is.” Tekchin turned away and began walking around the room, looking at his feet. Unless drunk, her father was never comfortable sitting or even standing in one place. Moving, she suspected, was a comfort to a person who’d spent centuries fighting one thing or another. It also suggested he was uncomfortable. Something was wrong, something bad enough to concern a two-thousand-year-old Fhrey who’d faced the afterlife and returned to tell the tale. “I didn’t think about it until I bumped into Sikar. We got to talking and realized that now that Nyphron is dead, the Erivan Fhrey are no longer obligated to obey the empyre.”
“But Nolyn is the new emperor.”
“Of men. But he’s not the fane—that’s what the Fhrey call their leader.”
“So, does that mean Nolyn needs to blow the horn?”
“No. He can’t challenge himself. As Nyphron’s heir, he’s already a contender. But his Ferrol-given powers as fane won’t kick in unless the ritual is completed. Sikar and I discussed the prospect of one of us sounding the horn. A challenge doesn’t have to end in a fight. We could yield, and that would satisfy the requirements. That’s how most of the transitions used to go.”
From her father’s demeanor, Sephryn had been expecting more. “So what’s the problem then?”
“If the horn is blown, all Fhrey will hear it. Even those in Erivan. They will know Nyphron is dead. The only reason the war stopped is because Nyphron became fane; our side would have lost otherwise. Without him, the war will start again, and this time the non-imperial Fhrey across the Nidwalden will win.”
Tekchin was prone to exaggeration. His stories weren’t just tall—they soared. Only she saw no hint of a smile, no wink. Her father wasn’t joking. He was serious.
“But we aren’t a band of tribal villages anymore. We have trained legions and—”
“The empyre is not as strong or as united as you’d think,” he said sharply as if revisiting an old wound. “Look at the revolution that Nolyn harnessed. The nine provinces are little more than wild dogs that Nyphron kept on a short leash for good reasons.” He stopped himself and took a breath, his face softening. “Sorry. The sad truth is that after the wedding and coronation, you’ll receive an education in the unpleasant complexities of rule. Humans are, well, like your mother: high-strung, emotional, and independent. But full-blooded Fhrey are more inclined to be constrained by rules, myself and Nyphron excluded, of course.” He winked. “Sephryn, you must understand that humans have never liked anyone telling them what to do. But sometimes, most of the time, that’s absolutely necessary. You and Nolyn have quite the challenge ahead. If you’re able to keep the provinces from breaking away, that will be a feat in itself. You don’t want to add facing the might of Erivan to that mix. Also, and perhaps even more important, you must keep in mind that during the Great War the use of gilarabrywns turned the tide. The Erivan Miralyith still know how to create those winged monstrosities, but with the passing of Suri, we don’t.”
“But you can still do that yield thing, right? Then Nolyn would be fane just like his father.”
Tekchin resumed his circling stroll, rubbing his chin where the faint shadow of a beard was emerging. “We could, but . . . I’m not an Umalyn priest, and I know there’s a bunch of stuff that goes into who gets the chance to blow the horn. Sikar didn’t know any more about it than I do, and we’d hate to find out we missed something. If we screw up, then Nolyn would have to fight. He’d end up battling a Miralyith and likely to the death. They won’t yield. And Nyphron’s trick of tattooing himself with the Orinfar to negate Mawyndulë’s advantage is well-known and won’t work twice. So it’s absolutely essential that no one on the other side of the river learns of Nyphron’s death. I suspect it’s the reason he set up the Ryin Contita in the first place.” Tekchin paused and looked out the narrow window at a blue sky that Sephryn had previously hoped heralded a beautiful day. “Also, the horn has to be kept a secret from everyone. I don’t even know how you found out so much about it. Does Nolyn know? Have you discussed this with him?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
“You want me to lie?”
“Just don’t volunteer information that all humans, and a good number of imperial Fhrey, have forgotten about.” He crossed the room and took her hands in his. “Look, we both know the type of person Nolyn is. If he learns he’s required by Fhrey law to present the horn, he’ll want to do what he believes is right, even if that means putting his own life in jeopardy. And to be honest, if it was only his life, I’d tell him to go right ahead. I’ve done exactly that on hundreds of occasions. But it’s not, is it?” He held her sig
ht with his. “The decision he makes could undo nearly a millennium of Fhrey and humans living side by side.”
He let go of her and walked back toward the window, halting when the sunlight filled his face. “I’ll admit that Nyphron didn’t do the best job integrating the races. But that’s not where his strength lay. Persephone and Moya knew there was a better way. They just didn’t live long enough to see it through.” He turned to face her again. “Now their children have a chance to change that. What do you think is a better use of Nolyn’s time? Working on fixing that problem, or letting his sense of decency cause him to gamble with his own life and possibly all mankind as well? Given that, do you really want him to know?”
Sephryn didn’t answer. Like her father, she had a strong suspicion Nolyn would face the challenge. “But what about Mawyndulë? He knows Nyphron is dead. His plan was to eliminate Nolyn and Nurgya as well. And even though he didn’t accomplish that, if the danger to Nolyn is as great as you say, wouldn’t he try to force the issue?”
“Mawyndulë won’t tell anyone, certainly not those in Erivan. He’s an outcast from there. They would kill him on sight.”
“What if he finds the real horn?”
“He won’t.”
“So you know where it is?”
Tekchin nodded.
“But you won’t tell me?”
“Someday, I will.”
“Why not now?”
The bell began to ring, calling the ceremony to its official start. Half a dozen servants poked their heads in, each smiling with excitement. “It’s time, Your Greatness.”
“After I become empress, I can order you to tell me.”
“Yes, of course, after the ceremony.” Tekchin grinned at her. “Your mother would have been so proud. You look wonderful, by the way.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Finding the Way Home
Nolyn Page 38
