Nolyn Page 25

  “How’s that possible?” Amicus asked. “In Calynia, we sweat in a dank, fly-infested jungle; you get to bask in the sun and drink wine on the banks of a leisurely river.”

  Farnell shook his head. “In the jungle, you thrive off the pride of your adversity, a brotherhood of hardship. Here, we languish in sight of the privileges the emperor bestows on his kinsmen, who do nothing but lord over us. We are the proverbial dogs on the far side of the fence being taunted by raw meat, and we have the time to complain, speculate, and let our wounds fester.”

  “Soldiers are built for conquest,” Farnell added. “You have ghazel and the jungle to quell. We have only the Instarya to hate.”

  Hillanus nodded and focused on Nolyn. “Your lineage, mixed blood, and legion experience make you the ideal standard to rally around. Add to that the support of Amicus Killian and the legendary Seventh Sik-Aux, and . . .” He grinned and broke into happy laughter.

  “I know,” Farnell said, nodding.

  “We couldn’t have requisitioned a better symbol,” Hillanus said.

  Symbol. Nolyn noted the term and the fact that Hillanus hadn’t offered a salute.

  A legate doesn’t salute a prymus, Nolyn consoled himself. But I’m the prince. Still, it might not mean anything.

  “We’ll move in tomorrow at dawn,” the First Legate declared, assuming command.

  Or maybe it does.

  With another joyous smile and continued lack of salute, Hillanus and Farnell turned their backs, and, along with their entourage, went off to tents already raised where once an oak tree stood.

  “He wants to be emperor,” Amicus told Nolyn as the two watched the procession recede. “We’ll have to kill Hillanus immediately.”

  “He’s thinking the same of me,” Nolyn replied.

  The two grabbed their gear and headed down the grassy bank toward where the Stryker crew was settling in. The simple weathered tents they pitched, which had seemed luxurious on the beach a week before, now appeared no better than a canvas slum.

  They cleared the row of six bobbing warships that blocked their view across the river. The city that marked the center of the world was just on the other side, and as the sun began to set, they found themselves in the city’s shadow. White-columned buildings, statues, obelisks, and temples crowned the green-wreathed hillside and seemed to sparkle in the evening light.

  “We’re dangerously close now,” Amicus said as the two walked along the towpath where the river lapped the bank. He might have been referring to the city but more likely was referring to the point of no return. The Wooden Crate Speech crossed a line, but an invisible one. Their next action would draw blood, which would be impossible to miss.

  The riverbank was alight with campfires as hundreds of soldiers prepared their suppers. Turning his head, Nolyn faced the city of Percepliquis. The tall domes and towers were in silhouette by then, faceless shadows that waited.

  “They know we’re here,” Amicus said, his mouth a grim line. “But we could still turn back.”

  “You think so?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Not really. Just trying to—I don’t know. Are you ready for this?”

  “Probably not,” Nolyn replied. He had always believed that Nyphron hated him, an undeniable fact. Not every son was a source of joy for his father, but the order to have him killed was another matter.

  If his father were anyone else, Nolyn still might be able to walk away. But Nyphron was the ruler of the known world, and Nolyn had no hope of evading the emperor’s grasp. He must face his father—not as a child but as an equal. With two legions behind him, Nolyn wouldn’t need to beg for an audience. He would have the upper hand and could finally end the rivalry that he had never understood, except . . .

  Nolyn pressed his hand against his chest, remembering the pain and humiliation he’d suffered when held down and marked with symbols he hadn’t understood.

  Why’d he do that if he hated me? And if he didn’t, why send me away? If he wanted me dead, why not just execute me? Why go to such elaborate lengths?

  Nolyn couldn’t account for three threads that had weighed on him since setting his feet on the path to revolution. First was the use of magic. His father abhorred the Art in all its forms. The second was that his father had never been shy or subtle. If Nyphron wanted his son dead, Nolyn would have been slaughtered at his post in the salt mine. And last, why go through the trouble of making Nolyn’s death look like a casualty of war? That last one bothered him the most because it was a cowardly act, and while Nyphron was many despicable things, gutless wasn’t one of them.

  Nolyn focused on the outline of Percepliquis—the City of Persephone. Once they passed through the archway, when the legions entered the city, the opportunity for talk would disappear.

  It’s impossible to hold a civil conversation over the noise of clashing steel.

  Nolyn had questions, and he needed answers before those explanations were forever beyond his reach.

  “What are you thinking?” Amicus asked. “Something stupid, I suspect.”

  Nolyn smiled. “You’ve come to know me all too well, my friend. But telling you would ruin the surprise.”

  As they neared the Stryker’s camp, conversation drifted to them from the newly dubbed Teshlors. They sat in a circle around a fire, much as they had every night since the sand beach after coming off the Estee. Nolyn wondered if they took the same places each night; he couldn’t remember but thought they might.

  “There should be a clear set of rules,” Jerel said.

  “There are,” Riley Glot replied. He poked the coals of the fire with a stick. “The legion has—”

  “The legion is governed by corrupt men who act according to their own best interest and pass on that example to their subordinates.”

  “That’s inevitable in any organization,” Riley countered.

  “But it doesn’t have to be.” Jerel was sitting straighter than usual. When Nolyn had first met DeMardefeld, he’d felt diminished by the superior quality of the soldier’s impeccable armor. Now he knew the mettle of the man wasn’t defined just by what he wore. Even in his tunic, Jerel managed to make everyone else appear dull and threadbare. “To say nothing can change because it never has is lazy and self-defeating.”

  “It’s human nature, bossy,” Smirch weighed in, as he sat down with a bowl of whatever the cook was serving.

  “What would you know about human nature?” Myth asked. Unlike the others, the big bear lay full-out on the ground, hands webbed behind his head, feet clapping the grass.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Smirch said without mirth. “I know that if given a chance, a man will cheat. And if he’s given power, he’ll abuse it.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to stop,” Jerel said.

  “What’s he talking about?” Nolyn asked as he and Amicus entered the light of the fire.

  Riley sighed. “DeMardefeld is getting a bit ahead of himself. He’s growing concerned at the state of the world after we are victorious and you’re sitting on the imperial throne.”

  “Gotta love the optimism.” Myth chuckled.

  “What is the problem?” Nolyn asked.

  Jerel went to the trouble of getting to his feet and squaring his shoulders before speaking, as if he were addressing the whole of the world. “You say you want equality throughout the empyre, but how will you achieve that, sir?”

  “I’ll make a set of laws and write them in stone, make them public.”

  “And then what? How will you ensure that the governor of Melenina enforces your laws properly? Ervanon is a long way from Percepliquis.”

  Nolyn shrugged. “I suppose I would send an officer of the legion to be my eyes and ears.”

  “And what would prevent that officer—so far from home—from becoming corrupt, being bribed, or even getting threatened to ignore crimes he witnesses?”

  Nolyn considered the observation. He hadn’t done so before, because the chances of such a thing being his problem were in
finitesimal. Even if his plan went exactly as he hoped and they reached Percepliquis with two legions willing to fight, Nolyn still had difficulty imagining a victory. Not a good sign. He was marching on the capital with the bravado of confidence, but defeat was in his heart. In too many ways, he felt like a character in a tragic play, unable to turn away from his fate. The present path was his future; it had always been so. “I’m not sure.”

  “Exactly,” Jerel said. “Which is why it’s important to discuss it now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nolyn asked.

  “Jerel wants us to do it,” Riley explained.

  “Us?” Amicus asked, appearing just as baffled as Nolyn.

  “Teshlors.”

  “But we have to have rules,” Jerel insisted. “A code of conduct that’s taught along with the martial training, preferably from childhood. As representatives of the emperor, we need to be uncompromised examples of virtue.”

  “You want to be Night Heroes?” Nolyn asked.

  Everyone returned blank looks.

  “Seriously?” Nolyn said, appalled. “It’s from The Book of Brin?”

  Still no recognition.

  “You all seemed to know about Gronbach. I just assumed . . . It’s from the Battle of Grandford.” Nolyn recited from memory,

  “The Night Hero, in armor shining

  Did vanquish fear, in truth providing

  Hope for all, and silver lining

  To a night so dark and uninviting.

  “It’s about the ride of Gifford the Great when he rode through the Fhrey’s camp to . . . oh, never mind.”

  “No! You’re right!” Jerel said. “That’s exactly it. We will be Teshlor Night Heroes, agents of the emperor, enforcers of fairness—incorruptible and indomitable. What better use will there be for men such as ourselves in possession of a talent for combat in an age without war?”

  “It always frightens me a little,” Amicus said, “when I find myself thinking that Jerel isn’t entirely insane.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hail, Prymus

  Mawyndulë stood in darkness, down near the river and away from the soldiers. He had canceled the weave that granted him the appearance of Demetrius. While not a difficult spell to maintain, it was bothersome, and his only respite came while asleep within a cocoon of wrappings.

  The lingering effects of seasickness left him feeling queasy. His legs were weak and his balance off. Like a spoiled child facing adversity for the first time, his stomach couldn’t be reasoned with, cursing him equally for eating and abstaining. As with any petulant brat, it needed time to vent its frustration and then take a nap.

  Traveling on that wretched boat has been the worst experience of my life, he thought and then cringed at his mistake. No, not the worst. Mawyndulë had refused to revisit his worst experience, the event that delineated the end of his adolescence and the start of his hate-filled adulthood.

  The first thirty years of his life had been fine—good even—although no one could have convinced him of that back then. He had been living the life of a privileged prince in an arboreal paradise, the son of the ruling fane of the Fhrey people. Then the war started, and with it came the inevitable slide—each day worse than the one before. All the intervening years were mere footsteps leading to an inescapable future.

  Night had descended along the river, and the legionnaires had settled into their camps. He could hear their sharp sounds cutting the night: crude laughter, the clang of pots, vulgar voices. Mawyndulë wasn’t far from the torture device known as the imperial warship Stryker. Sitting on the grassy bank among the cattails and rushes, his feet rested on a multitude of smooth stones. The great Urum flowed before him, a broad darkness gilded by moonlight. It reminded Mawyndulë of the Shinara River, that holy stream that meandered past the Fhrey palace. On its banks, he had first touched the love of his life, Makareta.

  Dead for more than eight centuries, his last memory of her was fading beyond his reach. Long ago, he’d forgotten the smell of her hair and then the sound of her voice. Now, he was struggling to remember what she had looked like. He had held onto the belief that she wasn’t really dead as long as he remembered her. But he’d failed.

  Mawyndulë now concluded that he’d had not one but two worst experiences. The first was when his father had killed his one and only lover; the second was when he’d lost his fight and his throne to Nyphron. While each was accompanied by ludicrous levels of pain, one nearly killed him, but the other made him wish he were dead.

  He might have died if Trilos hadn’t picked him up, both physically and emotionally. After losing to Nyphron, Mawyndulë had no incentive to breathe. The activity only prolonged his pain. Trilos had saved his life, and for years, Mawyndulë debated whether that rescue had been a kindness or a curse.

  That’s what tomorrow will decide.

  Mawyndulë straightened his back and peered about. The sky was clear. The moon and stars provided ample light. He was alone.

  Time to check in and hope she has good news.

  Mawyndulë closed his eyes. He didn’t have to but did so anyway—mostly from habit. Ever since Jerydd taught him the weave, he’d gone through the same procedure to make the connection. He drew power from the movement of the water. The current wasn’t anything like the Parthaloren Falls, but any sizable current possessed enough strength for his purpose. Tapping into the source, he reached out, concentrating on her mixed blood. For a long time, there had only been two in the entire world. Now he could identify the originals from a distance out of familiarity. The first was just behind him in the nearby camp, having his evening meal with his sweaty band of hounds. The other was in the city only a couple of miles away.

  Or should be.

  Mawyndulë could always pinpoint her marker with ease. He’d met Sephryn briefly. Nothing significant enough for her to remember, but long enough for him to make a mental stamp so she would stand out from the rest of the city’s inhabitants like a lone ladybug in a cluster of flies. At least that was usually the case, but now, Mawyndulë only saw flies.

  She’s in the palace.

  That was the only place he couldn’t see her. That was both good and bad. He’d wanted to speak with her before the big day, especially since it had been more than a week since he’d last checked in. The seasickness and the inability to find enough privacy for a long-distance conversation had made reaching out impossible.

  Given that Mawyndulë could think of few reasons for Sephryn to be in the palace at night, he hoped she was in the final process of obtaining the horn. There was a certain logic to it. Tomorrow was Founder’s Day, and all his plans were in motion. He opened his eyes, stood up, and headed back the way he had come.

  A much better way to exact my revenge, he mused while smiling at the river. Nolyn did me a favor by surviving that ambush in the jungle. If I still believed in the gods, I would have said my new plan was divinely inspired.

  Catching sight of Nolyn near the ship, strapping his helmet on, Mawyndulë’s smile faltered.

  What’s he up to?

  Nolyn had never liked hats of any kind, and his military helmet was the worst of them all. Being an officer, he thought it was more important to be seen and heard than to be armored for combat, so he rarely wore one in battle. The stiff horsehair fan of his helm ran from ear to ear as opposed to the front-to-back orientation of lower-ranked soldiers. Why either helmet had that adornment at all was a mystery, as it did nothing but made the helms top-heavy, awkward, and nearly impossible to wear when passing through an average-sized doorway. He wouldn’t have bothered with it at all except that the helmet was the primary indicator of his rank, and he might need it to get where he was going. Having retrieved the helm from the Stryker, he returned to the riverside where he paused to struggle with its buckle.

  “What’s with the helmet? The battle isn’t until tomorrow, right?” Demetrius asked, coming out of the dark.

  “That’s yet to be decided. I’ll let you know if I return.”

/>   “Please tell me you aren’t thinking of talking to your father.”

  The sun had long set, and the moon was well above the tree line, revealing the river with a shimmering white line, as if a luminescent snake were just below the surface.

  “I am.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Doing that will get you killed, or worse. The emperor is old and powerful. If given the chance, he’ll twist you into thinking up is down. It would be best to stay clear of his influence and kill him quickly. He already wants you dead. You’re making it easy for him by walking in there. You ought to wait until tomorrow. Then you can charge in with your army and cut his head off.”

  “Cut his head off? My father tried to kill me, not you.”

  Demetrius shrugged and gestured at the legion camps. “Your star appears to be rising. You have two legions who have sworn allegiance to you, and you have the city surrounded. There is a good chance you’ll take the throne—assuming you have the wit not to kill yourself. I could do far worse than proving myself valuable to the soon-to-be emperor on the night before his crowning.”

  “No one has sworn anything to me.” Nolyn finally got his helmet buckled. It felt like he had a potted plant strapped to his head. “The legions are loyal to their commanders, not Nolyn Nyphronian. It’s likely that the legates will each take this opportunity to try to seize the throne for themselves. Hillanus will win in the short run because he has more men, and he hails from this region, giving him an advantage. But Farnell will keep him off balance, preventing him from consolidating his control by denying him the river, which he will use to choke Hillanus. When the outer legions learn what’s happened, they will march on the city. Hillanus will feel the pressure to capitulate to Farnell’s demands or be crushed. The two will likely form a temporary pact, but they will be far too late and too weak to stop a long civil war. In the end, there’s a good chance that the empyre will be broken up into city-states under the control of each of the seven legions. These legates-turned-warlords will usher in an era of constant warfare that might never end—at least not before the ghazel take advantage of our division.”