Nolyn Page 31

  “If what you say is true, I don’t see what I have to lose. If I fight you and fail, I’ll die. But if I do nothing, I’ll be executed. If I fight and win, I might have to contend with Farnell and Hillanus, but if they can be bribed by you, I could offer them similar compensation. Granted, there’s only a slightly smaller chance of that happening, but it’s better than the alternatives.”

  Nyphron shook his head. “This is what comes from being raised by your mother. You think too much but don’t understand the basics. As a result, you have it all backward. Killing me is actually your worst-case scenario. Any other outcome is better.”

  Nyphron was delaying him. His father didn’t want to fight.

  Maybe he is bluffing. Can he be afraid of fighting me? No. Nyphron knows no fear. Can it be he doesn’t want to kill his own son?

  Nolyn found it impossible to believe that his father had feelings for him, but perhaps such an action would harm the emperor’s image as a virtuous ruler and father.

  “I don’t agree.” Nolyn pulled his sword.

  Nyphron did not. “You’re my son.”

  “I’m surprised you’re willing to admit that. To be honest, I was starting to wonder if you doubted that.”

  “So much of your mother in you.”

  “That’s a good thing—for you—or I would have struck already. Get one of those pretty swords off the wall. I’ll wait.”

  Nyphron smiled. “But some of me is in there, too, I see. That’s the problem. As my son—you’re also a Fhrey.”

  “Half-and-half, actually.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Even a drop of Fhrey blood is enough. You can’t kill another Fhrey. If you do, you’ll sacrifice your immortal spirit. You’ll be barred from entering Phyre. You’ll also lose your claim to the throne, and that won’t just affect you. It will ruin the world.”

  Nolyn grew tired of hearing him talk. He grabbed a sword off the wall and tossed it to his father. Nyphron let it fall on the floor.

  “Pick it up!” Nolyn shouted.

  He wanted it to be over. One way or another, he needed their conflict to end. Over eight hundred years of festering hatred felt like a loose tooth that refused to come free. Nolyn was determined to yank it out. He knew it would hurt, but the endless torment was worse. It had to end here. It had to end now.

  “No,” Nyphron said.

  The emperor turned his back on his son and walked to the decanter to refill his cup. “This really is fantastic wine. Just got it. Comes from over the sea. An insane sailor named Captain Elon Morrissy sailed out beyond the sight of land. Was gone nearly a year. He crossed the Blue Sea to the west and returned with it. Said he found a vineyard in the foothills of a mountain that he understandably named after himself.” He took a sip and sighed contentedly. “Bastard won’t tell anyone where it is.”

  “Pick up the sword, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Nyphron turned back to face him and showed an amused smile. “No, you won’t.”

  He returned to the chair and sat once more. He put his feet up in the spot that Nolyn had left vacant. “Once upon a time, I knew a son who actually did kill his father. He wanted his father’s throne for many of the same reasons you want mine. They were Fhrey, so the son paid a terrible price.”

  “And what makes you think I won’t—”

  “There is a fundamental difference between you and Mawyndulë. The prince of Erivan was raised in the traditional Fhrey manner. He never knew his mother. Even if he had, his mother wasn’t Persephone. Yours was.” Nyphron swirled his wine. “You may think you’re half-and-half, as you said, but she made you more human than Fhrey. She taught you compassion, empathy, and an unwavering sense of right and wrong. She’s been dead for centuries, and still you’re standing there wondering what she’d think, what she’d want you to do. Mawyndulë didn’t have that. You do. And we both know what your mother would say if she were here, and it wouldn’t be, ‘Kill your father, son. End the old bugger and take his throne.’” Nyphron looked down at his cup. “If I’m wrong, have at it. Prove once and for all whether you’re her son . . . or mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Cup of Wine

  Amicus was up before the sun. He took special care to ensure that each buckle was properly fastened, each hook correctly closed. More than eight years had passed since he had set foot in Percepliquis. Back then, he had just won the overly hyped Battle of the Century by defeating the Instarya warrior Abryll Orphe. Hours later, the imperial guard was dispatched to arrest him. Turned out he wasn’t supposed to win. Amicus refused their invitation to the palace prison by killing them instead. Then he ran. No one in the Erbon Forest had ever heard of Amicus Killian, and he faded into the foliage like so many other soldiers.

  Now he was back. He stood staring at the city as if it were a living thing. One great beast into whose mouth Nolyn Nyphronian had walked.

  “Don’t listen to them,” Amicus’s father had said, his grandfather nodding in agreement. “The emperor, the leaders of the legion, don’t even hear them out. It’s always the same thing. To win their battles, they need us to fight. Brigham helped during the Great War. His reward was to fight the Grenmorians. When he was too old, they insisted his son Ingram go to the Goblin Wars. What was his reward? Was it riches? A fine house? Respect? No, it was the privilege of having his son fight in the same war. And so on, and so on. So don’t listen to them and never serve the emperor.”

  Amicus wouldn’t—he knew that for sure—especially with Nyphron on the throne. As he stared at the complicated contours of the city slowly revealed by the growing morning light, Amicus understood. The difference was simple. His forefathers had all expected a reward for their efforts and sacrifices, but Amicus wanted nothing from Nolyn. He was done serving emperors; he was worried about a friend.

  Riley roused the others. As usual, Smirch required a kick to get him started. They were halfway through their meal when Amicus noticed a lack of preparation in the other camps.

  The First and Second were up, but the camps were quiet. No officers barked orders; no meals were cooked. The sun was nearly above the hills, but no line of men had formed.

  “Awfully casual for the first day of a war,” Amicus said.

  Myth looked up from his bowl. “Lack of experience. Most likely haven’t seen combat. Probably think it won’t get going until midday and that there’ll be a break for a catered meal.”

  “Hillanus did say they would attack at dawn, right?” Riley asked.

  “Let’s find out.” Amicus grabbed his big sword, slung it over his shoulder, and set off up the bank toward the big tent.

  Legates rarely suffered a stay in a tent, but when they did, it was an elaborate affair. Hillanus’s quarters was the size of a barn, with several other fringe-endowed, brightly colored canvas mansions circling it. These were the hardship quarters of the legate’s personal retinue: his scribes, palatus, First Prymus, and other staff officers and their servants. They formed a tiny community of isolated leadership.

  Out in front of the big tent was planted the sacred legion standard: a great raging bear made of gold. It rose up on hind legs and stood above the blue-and-gold silken banner.

  “I’m here to see Legate Hillanus,” Amicus explained as a pair of guards thrust out spears that crossed his path.

  “He’s still sleeping,” one of the guards said.

  “Is he?” Amicus nodded. “Well, we’re about to attack the city in just a few minutes. So maybe you ought to wake him?”

  That made the soldiers chuckle. “If you want to speak to the legate, come back later. I would suggest past midday, after he’s had his wine.”

  “What’s going on?” Riley asked, jingling up behind Amicus with the rest of the Seventh. That was one of the differences between the eastern and western legions. The western left their gear in tents when they marched to battle. The eastern carried everything everywhere they went.

  “I don’t know,” Amicus said. “But I have a feeling we were lied
to.”

  “They’re not going to attack?” Everett asked, his gaze shifting back and forth between Amicus and the guards still holding crossed spears before the tent. “But Prince Nolyn is already in the city.”

  Amicus looked at the sun peeking over the hills. “And it’s dawn.”

  “If by sunrise I don’t come back, then assume I’m dead, take command of the Teshlors, and do what you feel is best.”

  The word best had never before felt so vague.

  “Amicus Killian.” The tent flap flew back and Hillanus stepped out, yawning. He wore a blue robe over a white nightshirt, his face red and blotchy on one side, eyes squinting from the light of day. He scowled at the rising sun. “My lords, how early is it?”

  “Sorry to wake you, but we have a revolution to start, sir,” Amicus reported.

  “You’re right. We could do that.” Hillanus nodded and wiped a crust of dry drool from the corner of his mouth. “And technically, I’m supposed to let you go in—you and your little group. I think the emperor wants to personally see all of you, but I’m reminded that there is a bounty on your head, Amicus. I could let you walk in, but if I bring you into the city in chains, I can make the argument that I deserve the reward. The emperor might not agree, but there is a chance he may.” He raised an arm over his head and made a casual come-here motion with his fingers.

  More soldiers raced up. These had weapons drawn, and they settled in between Amicus and the legate. Behind him, Amicus heard the Seventh drawing metal.

  “Do what you feel is best.”

  The influx of infantry already outnumbered them, but the soldiers made no move to attack. Instead, they adhered to the “dog-distance”—the term derived from the gap left between rival canines seeking to intimidate but not yet ready to fight. They watched Hillanus, who waited for more to arrive. While that might be a sign he understood what he was up against, it could be that the legate wanted a sufficient show of force to ensure surrender. He stood a better chance at the reward with live criminals than corpses.

  While Amicus didn’t know what Hillanus was thinking, he knew he and his men were in a strategically bad spot. Backing away, he was pleased to see Hillanus’s men giving ground. He retraced his path to the river.

  “Don’t let them get near the ships,” Hillanus shouted, his voice growing distant. “We’ll have a lousy time fetching them out. Probably have to burn the damn things, and that won’t do.”

  More legionnaires appeared, jogging in and driving the Sik-Aux north, away from the ships and toward the bridge.

  “We can’t fight all of them,” Myth said. “I mean, we could, but it would be a terrible battle.”

  “We’ve already lost,” Amicus said as they reached the bridge, the only strategic place to make a stand and anything but ideal. The span was majestically wide. All of them in a line couldn’t block it, and any force coming from the city would strike at their backs.

  “What about the city?” Riley asked, pointing at the great archway behind them. It lacked a wall. The arched gateway that marked the entrance was ornamental—an overgrown trellis.

  “I remember it has a lot of narrow streets, too,” Smirch added. “Maybe we can lose them.”

  “While dressed in uniforms?” Myth asked.

  Seeing them near the city, Hillanus must have felt his chance at the reward dwindling.

  “Take them!” he shouted. “Kill them if you have to, but stop them now!”

  “He certainly doesn’t want us going in,” Riley said.

  The camps were awake now. The ships had deposited six hundred soldiers on the bank, and some of those who were on foot arrived during the night to bolster that force. Amicus guessed the number of men facing them across the bridge—those presently charging—to be only fifty. Many more would follow.

  With a miserable resignation, Amicus knew he and the Sik-Aux would lose. They were incredibly outnumbered and caught on a battlefield with no strategic advantage. But neither of those reasons was the real problem. Their cause of death would be because they were facing legionnaires rather than ghazel. Not that men were better at combat. On average, the ghazel were more formidable than a typical soldier. What would kill them was the reservations he saw in the eyes of his men. They didn’t want to fight. Their hearts weren’t in it. Killing goblins was one thing; killing fellow soldiers wearing the same uniform was soul crushing.

  What was left of the Seventh Sik-Aux continued retreating until they reached the entrance of the still-sleeping city. Amicus took position at the center of the line, under the great stone blocks of the massive Grand Arch that marked the formal entrance to the city, and waited.

  It’s better this way, he thought, better than dying of the pox, at least.

  Nolyn saw relief break on the face of Jerel DeMardefeld the moment he returned to the palace gate. Pain-filled tension melted away, thawing into an undeniable grin. Jerel was a concerned father seeing his son emerge from the dust of battle.

  “You had me worried, sir,” Jerel said as Nolyn walked out. “You might not have noticed, but it’s dawn.”

  Nolyn was well aware of the time. The sun was up. Many of the streets were shrouded in shadows, the alleys caves. The plaza was still waking, ghostly cart merchants rushing to find ideal locations for Founder’s Day.

  “How did it go, sir?”

  “You and your god are right, Jerel. I’m my mother’s son.”

  “What does that mean?” Demetrius asked. The moment they were far enough away from the gate guard, he added, “Is he dead?”

  “No. We just talked. Turns out I was wrong about him—mostly. He didn’t try to kill me—knew nothing about it, and I believe him. The rest was a series of misunderstandings.”

  Nolyn led them into the plaza that formed the terminus of the Grand Marchway. The large square was paved in flat stones, and a fountain at its center depicted four horses bursting out of frothing waters. The plaza gave birth to the Grand Marchway that ran straight as an arrow in front of the palace. Every Founder’s Day that Nolyn had spent in the city that boulevard had been lined with flowering trees. But during this spring, cold weather had delayed the opening of buds. The weather hadn’t daunted the citizenry. The traditional blue-and-green flags were already out, hanging from balconies, flying over homes and shops.

  “What about your plan for making laws fair for everyone?”

  Nolyn nodded. “He’s a bit set in his ways, and quite smart, but he had no answer when I compared him to the Miralyith. I think there’s a foothold there, a foundation on which we might be able to build something.”

  Jerel looked up. “The sun is rising. We ought to get back or—”

  Nolyn shook his head. “The legions won’t be attacking.”

  Demetrius stopped walking and shook his head. “You were supposed to kill the emperor!” he fumed, his hands clenched in fists.

  Nolyn glanced around, pleased to find most of the square empty. They were alone. “Relax. It’s not happening. It’s over.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  “Because doing so would be wrong. Some things are that simple. And I now believe I can work with him. I got a toe in the door, if you will. And a greater understanding was reached for both of us. I think I can help my father see that he has been perpetrating the same injustices on humans that drove him to war with the Miralyith. He’s not an idiot or a tyrant, just flawed.”

  Demetrius continued to shake his head, looking baffled and incredibly disappointed. “I was certain you would go through with it.” He looked at his feet, or maybe at the paving stones. “The symmetry was just so perfect. Now you’ve ruined everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nolyn asked.

  Demetrius sighed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” The man looked thoroughly disgusted. “I worked so hard, planned everything so precisely. Don’t you get it?” Demetrius spun, his hands outstretched, presenting the city. “It’s Founder’s Day—Founder’s Day! And you, his son, would have killed the em
peror, not even caring about the loss of your soul. That’s why I waited and didn’t end you myself when you returned from the jungle. I wanted you to lose the afterlife just like I did. It would have been so grand. Your entire line would have been eliminated, both your father and your son, and you’d have no claim to the throne. I’d get my second chance, and I would be unopposed. This time the decision of who rules wouldn’t come down to a duel. There wouldn’t be anyone to challenge me—no one of any consequence, at least.”

  “My son?” Nolyn asked. “You’re not making any sense. I have no child, living or dead.”

  “Demetrius,” Jerel said, “are you feeling all right?”

  “Oh, stop calling me that. My name isn’t Demetrius.”

  “I don’t understand any of—” Nolyn started to say when he heard a familiar sound. Cocking his head, he spun and peered into the shadowed streets behind them.

  “What is it?” Jerel asked.

  “Oh, by the blood of Mari!” Nolyn cursed. He stared at Demetrius, stunned. “What have you done?”

  “A whole lot of digging,” Demetrius replied. “Fortunately, this city is built on limestone caverns. I didn’t have to go far. They have come.”

  “Who?” Jerel asked.

  Nolyn continued to search for the source of the clicking sound. “Ghazel.”

  Amicus drew two of his swords and set his feet. To either side, the others took up positions to block the passage as fifty legionnaires barreled toward them. When they were only a few feet away, Amicus identified his first five targets. He didn’t calculate the necessary moves. Such things had been relegated to muscle memory, a fact that hampered his ability to train others. Decades of practice took over and he—

  The first few legionnaires stopped while still ten feet away.

  They didn’t stop, Amicus realized. They slammed into something.

  With a set of rapid grunts, the three coming at him halted as abruptly as if they had run headlong into a stone wall and then fell. The one in the center lay on the ground, his nose busted.