Nyphron Rising

by Michael J. Sullivan

  "I can't believe Alric sent her in the first place. What an idiot! Why didn't he pick a representative outside the royal court? Why did he have to send her?"

  "He didn't send her," Royce said. "I doubt anyone in Medford has a clue where she is. She did this on her own."

  "What?"

  "She arrived at The Rose & Thorn unescorted. Have you ever seen her go anywhere without a bodyguard?"

  "So why did you—"

  "Because I needed an excuse to bring you here, to find out if what Esrahaddon showed me was true."

  "So this is my fault?" Hadrian asked.

  "No, it's everyone's fault: you for pushing so hard to retire, me for not telling you the truth, Arista for being reckless, even your father for never having told you who you really were."

  They sat in silence a moment.

  "So what do we do now?" Hadrian said at last. "Your original plan isn't going to work so well anymore."

  "Why do I always have to come up with the plans, Mr. I'm-not-so-stupid?"

  "Because, when it comes to deciding how I should live my own life—I should be the one to choose—but when getting out of a prison, even as pathetic as it is, that's more your area of expertise."

  Royce sighed and began to look around at the walls.

  "By the way," Hadrian began, "what was the real reason you didn't tell me?"

  "Huh?"

  "A bit ago you said—"

  "Oh," Royce continued to study the walls. He seemed a little too preoccupied by them. Just as Hadrian was sure he would not answer, Royce said, "I didn't want you to leave."

  Hadrian almost laughed at the comment, thinking it was a joke, and then nearly bit his tongue. It was hard to think of Royce as anything but callous. Then he realized Royce never had a family and precious few friends. He grew up an orphan on the streets of Ratibor, stealing his food and clothes and likely receiving his share of beatings for it. He probably joined the Diamond as much from a desire to belong as a means to profit. After only a few short years they betrayed him. Hadrian realized at that moment Royce did not see him just as his partner, but his family. Along with Gwen and perhaps Arcadius, they were the only ones he had.

  "You ready?" Royce asked.

  "For what?"

  "Turn around, let's go back to back and link arms."

  "You're kidding. We aren't going to do that again, are we?" Hadrian said miserably. "I've been sitting in cold water for hours. I'll cramp."

  "You know another way to get up there?" Royce asked, and Hadrian shook his head. Royce looked up. "It isn't even as high as the last time and it's narrower so it will be easier. Stand up and stretch a second. You'll be fine."

  "What if the guard is up there with a stick to poke us with?"

  "Do you want to get out of here or not?"

  Hadrian took a deep breath. "I'm still mad at you," he said, turning and linking arms back to back with Royce.

  "Yeah well, I'm not too happy with me either right now."

  They began pushing against each other as they walked up the walls of the pit. Immediately Hadrian's legs began to protest the effort, but the strain on his legs was taken up some by the tight linking of their arms and the stiff leverage it provided.

  "Push harder against me," Royce told him.

  "I don't want to crush you."

  "I'm fine just lean back more."

  Initially the movement was clumsy and the exertion immense, but soon they fell into a rhythm.

  "Step," Royce whispered. The pressure exerted against each other was sufficient to keep them pinned.

  "Step." They slid another foot up, scraping over the stony sides.

  The water running down the walls gave birth to a slippery slime and Hadrian carefully placed his feet on the drier bricks and used the cracks for traction. Royce was infinitely better at this sort of thing, and impatient with their progress. Hadrian was far less comfortable and often pushed too hard. His legs were longer and stronger and he had to keep remembering to relax.

  They finally rose above the level of the slime to where the rock was dry, and moved with more confidence. They were now high enough that a fall would break bones. He started to perspire with the exertion and his skin was slicked with sweat. A droplet cascaded down his face and hung dangling on the tip of his nose. Above he could see the grate growing larger, still a maddening distance away.

  What if we can't make it? How can we get back down besides falling?

  Hadrian had to push the thought out of his mind and concentrate. Nothing good would come from anticipating failure. Instead, he forced himself to think of Arista riding to her death or capture. They had to make it up—and quickly—before his legs lost all of their strength. Already they shook from fatigue, buckling under the strain.

  As they neared the top, Royce stopped calling steps. Hadrian kept his eyes on the wall where he placed his feet, but felt Royce tilting his head back peering up. "Stop," he whispered. Panting for air they steadied themselves, unlinked arms, and grabbed the grating. Letting their tortured legs fall loose, they hung for a minute. The release of the strain was wonderful, and Hadrian closed his eyes with pleasure as he gently swayed.

  "Good news and bad news," Royce said. "No guards, but it's locked."

  "You can do something about that, right?"

  "Just give me a second."

  He could feel Royce shifting around behind him. "Got it." There was another brief pause and Hadrian's fingers were starting to hurt. "Okay, we'll slide it to your left, ready? Feet up."

  Lighter than Hadrian expected, they slid the grate clear of the opening and in one fluid movement hauled themselves out. Rolling on the damp grass of the manor's lawn, they lay for a second catching their breath. They were alone in a darkened corner of the manor's courtyard.

  "Weapons?" Hadrian asked.

  "I'll check the house. You see about getting horses."

  "Don't kill anyone," Hadrian mentioned.

  "I'll try not to, but if I see Luret—"

  "Oh yeah, kill him."

  Hadrian worked his way carefully toward the courtyard stable. The horses made a sudden start at his approach, snorting and bumping loudly into the stall dividers. He grabbed the first saddle and bridle he found and discovered they were familiar. Arista's bay mare, his horse, and Mouse were corralled with the rest.

  "Easy girl," Hadrian whispered softly as he threw the blankets on two of them. He buckled the last bridle around Mouse's neck when Royce came in carrying a bundle of swords.

  "Your weapons, sir knight."

  "Luret?" Hadrian asked, strapping his swords on.

  Royce made a disappointed sound. "Didn't see him. Didn't see hardly anyone. These country folk go to bed early."

  "We're a simple lot."

  "Mouse?" Royce muttered. "I just can't seem to get rid of this horse, can I?"

  ***

  Arista discovered riding on the back of a horse was significantly less comfortable than riding in a saddle. Etcher added to her misery by keeping the horse at a trot. The hammering to Arista's body caused her head to ache. She asked for him to slow down, but was ignored. Before long, the animal slowed to a walk on its own. It frothed and Arista could feel its sweat soaking her gown. Etcher kicked the beast until it started again. When the horse once more retuned to a walk, the thief resorted to whipping it with the ends of the reins. He missed and struck Arista hard across the thigh. She yelped, but that too was ignored. Eventually Etcher gave up and let the horse rest. She asked where they were going and why they needed to rush. Still, he said nothing—he never even turned his head. After a mile or two, he drove the animal into a trot once more. It was as if she was not there.

  With each jarring clap on the horse's back Arista became increasingly aware of her vulnerability. She was alone with a strange man somewhere in the backwoods of Rhenydd, where any authority of law would seize her rather than him, regardless of what he did. All she knew about him—the only thing she could be certain of—was that he was morally dubious. While it w
as one thing to trust herself to Royce and Hadrian, it was quite another to leap onto the back of a horse with a stranger who took her off into the wilds. If she had time to think, she might have declined to go, but now it was too late. She rode trusting to the mercy of a dangerous man in a hostile land.

  His silence did nothing to alleviate her fear. When it came to silence, Etcher put Royce to shame. He said nothing at all. The profession of thievery was not likely to attract gregarious types but Etcher seemed an extreme case. He even refused to look at her. This was perhaps better than other alternatives. A man such as Etcher was likely only acquainted with sun-baked, easy women in dirty dresses. How appealing must it be to have a young noblewoman clutching to him alone in the wilderness—and a royal princess at that.

  If he attacks me, what can I do?

  A good high-pitched scream would draw a dozen armed guards in Essendon castle, but since leaving Hintindar she had not seen a house or a light. Even if someone heard her she would probably spend her life in an imperial prison once her identity was discovered. He could do with her as he willed and when he was done he could kill her or hand her over to imperial authorities who would no doubt pay him for the service. No one would care if he delivered her bruised and bloodied. She regretted her fast escape without taking the time to think. She had nothing to defend herself with. Her small side pouch held only her father's hairbrush and a bit of coin. Her dagger was somewhere in the bundle of her bedding. How long would it take her to find it in the dark?

  She sighed.

  Why must I always focus on the negative? The man has done nothing at all. So he's quiet, so what? He's risking his own life smuggling me to this meeting. He's nervous, watchful, perhaps he's frightened, too. Is it so odd he's not making small talk? I'm just scared, that's all. Everything looks bad when you're scared. Isn't it possible he's just shy around women? Cautious around noble ladies? Concerned anything he says or does could be misconstrued and lead to dangerous accusations? Obviously, he has good cause to be concerned. I've already practically convicted him of a host of crimes he hasn't had time to commit! Royce and Hadrian are honorable thieves, why not Etcher as well?

  The trail disappeared entirely and they rode across unmarked fields of windswept grass. They seemed to be heading toward a vague and distant hill. She spotted some structures silhouetted against the pallid sky. They entered yet another forest this time through a narrow opening in the dense foliage. Here, Etcher was content to let the horse walk. It was quiet away from the wind. Fireflies blinked around them and Arista listened to the clacking steps of their mount.

  We're on a road?

  Too dark to see anything clearly, Arista recognized the sound of hooves on cobblestone.

  Where are we?

  When at last they cleared the trees she could see the slope of a bald hill where the remains of buildings sat. Giant stones spilled and scattered to the embrace of grass, forming dark heaped ruins of arched doorways and pylons of rock. Like grave markers they thrust skyward at neglected angles, the lingering cadavers and bleached bones of forgotten memories.

  "What is this place?" Arista asked.

  She heard a horse whinny and spotted the glow of a fire up the slope. Without a word Etcher kicked the horse once more into a trot. Arista took solace knowing the end of her ordeal was at hand.

  Near the top, two men sat huddled amidst the ruins. A campfire flicked, sheltered from the wind by a corner section of weathered stone and rubble. One was hooded, the other hatless and immediately Arista thought of Royce and Hadrian.

  Had they somehow arrived ahead of us?

  As they drew closer, Arista realized she was wrong. These men were younger, and both as large as, if not larger than, Hadrian. They stood at their approach and Arista saw dark shirts, leather tunics and broadswords hanging from thick belts.

  "Running late," the hooded one said. "Thought you weren't going to make it."

  "Are you Nationalists?" she asked.

  The men hesitated. "Of course," the other replied.

  They approached, and the hooded one helped her down from the horse. His hands were large and powerful. He showed no strain taking her weight. He had two days of beard and smelled of sour milk.

  "Are one of you Degan Gaunt?"

  "No," the hooded one replied. "He sent us ahead to see if you were who you said you were. Are you the Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar?"

  She looked from one face to the next, all harsh expressions, even Etcher glared at her.

  "Well, are you or aren't you?" He pressed, moving closer.

  "Of course she is!" Etcher blurted out. "I have a long ride back so I want my payment, and don't try and cheat me."

  "Payment?" Arista asked.

  Etcher once more ignored her.

  "I don't think we can pay you for delivery until we know it's her, and we certainly aren't taking your word for it. She could be a whore from the swill yards of Colnora that you washed and dressed up—and did a piss-poor job of it, at that."

  "She's pretending to be a commoner and she's dirty on account of the ride here."

  The hooded man advanced even closer to study her. She backed up instinctively but not fast enough as he grabbed her roughly at the chin and twisted her face from side to side.

  Infuriated, she kicked at him and managed to strike his shin.

  The man grunted and anger flashed in his eyes. "You bloody little bitch!" He struck her hard across the face with the flat of his hand.

  The explosion of pain overwhelmed her. She found herself on her hands and knees gripping a spinning world with fists of grass. Her face ached, and her eyes watered.

  The men laughed.

  The humiliation was too much. "How dare you strike me!" she screamed.

  "See," Etcher said pointing at her.

  The hooded man nodded. "Alright, we'll pay you. Danny, give him twenty gold."

  "Twenty? The sentinel agreed to fifty!" Etcher protested.

  "Keep your mouth shut or it'll be ten."

  Arista panted on the ground, her breath coming in short stifled gasps. She was scared and rapidly losing herself to panic. She needed to calm down—to think. Through bleary eyes, she looked to Etcher and his horse. There was no chance of grabbing it and riding away. His feet were in the stirrups and her weight could never pull him off.

  "Guy won't appreciate you pocketing thirty of the gold he sent with you."

  They laughed. "Who do you really think he'll believe? You or us?"

  Arista considered the fire. She could try to run to it and grab a burning stick. No. She would never make the distance, and even if she did, what would a burning stick do against swords. They would only laugh at her.

  "Take the twenty and keep your damn mouth shut, or you can ride away with nothing."

  She could try running. It was downhill and in the dark she could—no, she was not fast enough and the hill was bare of cover. She would have to make it all the way to the forest before having the slightest hope of getting away and Etcher could ride after her and drag her back. Afterward they would beat and tie her then all hope would be lost.

  "Don't even think about it you little git," the hooded one was saying.

  Etcher spat in anger. "Give me the twenty."

  The hooded man tossed a pouch that jingled and Etcher caught it with a bitter look.

  Arista started to cry. Time was running out. She was helpless and there was nothing at all she could do. For all her royal rank, she could not defend herself. Nor was her education in the art of magic any help. All she could do was make them sneeze and that was not going to save her this time.

  Where are Royce and Hadrian? Where is Hilfred? How could I be so stupid, so reckless? Isn't there anyone to save me?

  Not surprisingly, Etcher left without a word to her.

  "So this is what a princess looks like?" the hooded one said. "There's nothing special about you, is there? You look just as dirty as any wench I've had."

  "I don't know," the other said. "She's bett
er than I've seen. Throw me the rope over there. I wanna enjoy myself, not get scratched up."

  She felt her blood go cold. Her body trembled, tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched the man set off to fetch the rope.

  No man had ever touched her before. No one dared think in such terms. It would mean death in Melengar. She had no midnight rendezvous, no casual affairs, or castle romances. No boy ever chanced so much as a kiss, but now…she watched as the man with the stubble beard came at her with a length of twine.

  If she had only learned something, more useful than tickling noses and boiling water she could—

  Arista stopped crying. She did not realize it but she had stopped breathing as well.

  Can it work?

  There was nothing else to try.

  The man grinned expectantly as Arista closed her eyes and began to hum softly.

  "Look at that. I think she likes the idea. She's serenading us."

  "Maybe it's a noble ritual or something?"

  Arista barely heard them. Once more using the concentration method Esrahaddon taught her she focused her mind. She listened to the breeze sway the grass, the buzz of the fireflies and mosquitoes, and the song of the crickets. She could feel the stars and sense the earth below. There was power there. She pulled it toward her, breathing it in, sucking it into her body, drawing it to her mind.

  "How you want her?"

  "Wrists behind the back works for me, but maybe we should ask her how she likes it?" They laughed again. "Never know what might tickle a royal's fancy."

  She was muttering, forming the words, drawing in the power, giving it form. She focused elements, giving them purpose and direction. She built the incantation as she had before but now varied it. She pushed, altering the tone to shift the focus just enough.

  The crickets stopped their song and the fireflies creased their mating flashes, even the gentle wind no longer blew. The only sound now was Arista's voice as it grew louder and louder.

  Arista felt herself pulled to her feet as the man spun her and maneuvered her arms behind her back. She ignored him concentrating instead on moving her fingers as if she were playing an invisible musical instrument.