Nolyn Read online

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Because it makes no sense. Bran has The Book of Brin. His mother gave it to him on his thirteenth birthday. She used it to teach him to read and write—we all learned from it.”

  “Not that Book of Brin, I know that tome well. The members of my order have dedicated our lives to learning its every word. What I’m referring to is the second Book of Brin.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  They reached the stone steps that led to the front door of Sephryn’s building, a slender, tapering, ancient structure of pockmarked blond brick and creeping moss. At that moment, she recalled it was Bran who had found the place for her. Sephryn had just returned to Percepliquis from Merredydd after her mother’s death. Bran was waiting for her, and the two spent the day searching for a place she could afford. Back then, she had few resources and was too proud to ask her father for help.

  Little had changed. As Director of the Imperial Council, she earned a good salary but gave most of the money away. Sephryn found it difficult to reconcile living well while those she was paid to help struggled in poverty. With her most recent income donated, she had nothing to offer this odd monk from the countryside, except . . .

  No. I can’t. Mica will kill me.

  The old woman was intensely religious, which was strange since so few humans worshiped the Fhrey god, Ferrol. Whether for religious reasons or just because she liked to nag, Mica disapproved of Sephryn’s decisions. The most fervent complaints stemmed from Sephryn living alone, working too late at council meetings, not staying home with her child, and why Nurgya’s father wasn’t providing for them.

  Sephryn took hold of the door’s latch and paused.

  Don’t do it, she told herself. Don’t take in another stray. Over the years, Sephryn had opened her home to hundreds, all of them destitute and unable to pay. Although most moved on after getting back on their feet, Mica had remained.

  “Do you have a place to stay?” Sephryn asked the monk, who lingered on the steps with one foot up and the other still on the street.

  “Ah, no. I don’t. You seem familiar with the city. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “How much money do you have?” Realizing that might be too intrusive, she reworded the query. “How much can you afford to spend on a room?” Sephryn bit her lip, waiting for the answer, knowing what it would be.

  Seymour looked pained and shook his head. “We don’t have much need for coins in Dibben.”

  “You have no money at all? You really did learn from Bran, didn’t you?” She noticed he had only one small bag that couldn’t hold more than a meal. “What were you planning on doing?”

  “Well, I came here to start a church. The brotherhood decided it was time for us to open the doors of truth to the wider world, and what better place than the capital to do that? After all, this is the city where Bran started preaching.”

  “I meant how were you expecting to survive without any money?”

  Again, the pained look, as if she’d slapped him. “Um, I was, ah—we have a saying at the monastery: Maribor will provide.”

  “That’s your plan?”

  He nodded. “Granted, it could use some work.” He smiled.

  The expression melted her heart, not merely because it was ridiculously cute in a puppy-begging-for-a-treat sort of way, but because Bran had often done the same thing, in the exact same way.

  “I guess I’ll find a stable or maybe a dry spot under a bridge,” Seymour said. “The city is full of bridges. I’ve never seen so many in one place. Don’t have a blanket, but it shouldn’t be so cold tonight, right? Maybe a little chilly by morning, but—”

  “You can stay here,” she said, regretting the words even as they came out.

  Turning, she opened the door and braced for the onslaught that was Mica.

  “Are you sure? Because I could—”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Maybe having him with me will temper Mica’s tirade.

  Sephryn entered the home and was surprised by the silence. Usually, Mica spotted her from the window and charged down the stairs, spouting a barrage of reprimands.

  She’s probably putting Nurgya to sleep.

  There was a loud thud from behind Sephryn, and she spun.

  The monk was on the floor. He had fallen to his knees, his face turned upward, his eyes fixed on the wall above the fireplace mantel. “By the holy beard of Maribor, can that be what I think it is?”

  “What I think is that you hurt my floor.” Sephryn pulled off her head wrap and threw it on the hook near the door.

  The ground level of the building was made up of two rooms, a bedroom and a kitchen that flowed into a sitting area, all of which centered on the fireplace. Mica kept the place clean, which was good because Sephryn wasn’t a tidy person. She once asserted that mold was a viable means of cleaning a plate—albeit significantly slower than letting a dog lick it. The problem was never having enough dishes for the time required. Mica went to the ridiculous trouble of using soap and water. At least it had seemed absurd until Sephryn had had Nurgya. Since then, she’d rethought her mold-cleaning approach.

  Seymour remained on the floor, staring up at the mantel above the hearth where no fire had been lit—that, too, was odd. Spring was taking its time, and the building was chilly.

  “Oh, stop it, will you,” Sephryn chided Seymour. “It’s just a bow—my mother’s. Damn thing is too big to fit anywhere else.”

  “The length, color, that unique bend, and the mark near the top, I’ve seen paintings of it.” Seymour spoke in a quavering voice that was barely above a whisper. “That’s Audrey.” He said the name with so much emotion she thought he might cry or possibly faint. “You’re the daughter of . . . of . . . Moya the Magnificent?”

  “Moya the Magnificent? Oh, Dear Mari! How my mother would have loved that.” Sephryn rolled her eyes.

  “Then your father . . .” Seymour put the pieces together, as anyone who had read The Book of Brin would. “He must have been Tekchin—a Galantian! That’s how it’s possible for you to have met Bran! You’re half Fhrey!”

  “The green eyes didn’t tip you off? And for the record, my father is still alive, which reminds me, I really should plan a trip to Merredydd. I sent a message about his grandson and asked him to visit. I would go there, but I don’t like traveling, and there’s so much to do here. Every day brings a new problem.”

  “You have a child?”

  “Yes, and I don’t have a husband, so don’t bother asking about him.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Really? Everyone else does. Speaking of which . . .” She moved to the stairs, looking up and listening. “Mica?” she called.

  No answer.

  “Who is that?”

  “My son’s nursemaid, who, like you, has a way of making me go against my better judgment. She works for me, and not the other way around, which is one of those things she conveniently forgets.” Raising her voice, she called again, “Mica!”

  Still no answer.

  Did she fall asleep? Or has something happened to Nurgya?

  Sephryn charged up the first flight of stairs and barged onto Mica’s floor. The place looked like it always did, with two notable exceptions: The little table near the stairs had been toppled, and Nurgya’s wooden teething ring lay on the floor. Seeing them, Sephryn’s heart crawled into her throat, trying to escape, making it difficult to breathe.

  Nurgya!

  She raced up the wooden stairs to the nursery. Climbing the final steps, Sephryn didn’t know what to expect. Something awful, certainly. It had been that sort of day, and for Mica to be gone was more than strange. But what she found was beyond imagining.

  Blood was everywhere, as if a dog had swum in a lake of it and then stood in the center of the nursery and shook. The curtains, the crib, the ceiling and walls—everything was stained. The rocking chair was splattered, as was the hope chest, the pillows, and the blankets. One wall had a radiant spra
y as if someone had burst a wineskin against it. At the base of that mark was Mica’s dress, the material entirely soaked. The one thing she didn’t see was Nurgya.

  She couldn’t breathe, needed air. Turning around, Sephryn reached for and found the wall.

  Breathe. Breathe, stupid. Breathe for Nurgya’s sake.

  For an instant, she thought the house was shaking, rumbling, vibrating wildly, then she realized it was her legs. They were giving out.

  “What happened in here?” Seymour asked as he cautiously inched up the steps.

  Sephryn turned and grabbed him, hugging the monk as she sobbed. That’s when she saw it, and in that horrible moment, her tears, and perhaps even her heart, stopped. Written in blood on the wall above the stairwell were the words:

  CHILD STILL ALIVE.

  TELL ANYONE AND HE DIES.

  WILL CONTACT YOU.

  Chapter Three

  The Gathering

  Sunlight, faint and hazy, trickled down through the jungle canopy to illuminate Nolyn’s world of misty green. He’d slept a little, an hour or maybe two taken in brief naps—none of which were intentional. With the advent of light, he decided to move, and crawling from beneath the log, he found his muscles stiff. If any ghazel lingered nearby, he’d present an easy target, but Nolyn hadn’t heard anything except insects, dripping water, and wind in leaves. The sound of water got him going. The Erbon Forest made everything sweat: the trees, the plants, the air itself, and most certainly men. He was desperate for a drink.

  Nolyn moved through the jungle brush, holding his sword up like a talisman against evil. He swore to clean the dried blood from the blade, right after drinking his fill at the river. Nolyn hated seeing the metal soiled. He’d taken exacting care of the weapon for centuries. It had been a present from Bran’s mother, a gift for Nolyn’s twenty-second birthday. As far as Nolyn knew, it was the last sword that Roan of Rhen had ever forged—a holy relic from a lost era, an age of myth and legend.

  Dew on the plants soaked his clothes, torturing him to the point that he sucked some water from the stem of a flower that acted like a cup. Not nearly enough, and he hoped it wasn’t poisonous. He wouldn’t put anything past the jungle, as it, more than the goblins, had stymied the empyre’s legions for the last four centuries. Reports had leaked west about the increased casualties as the imperial forces pushed east. Plagued by heat, rain, and insect-borne diseases, entire companies of men were lost, but none of those hardships bothered the ghazel. Nolyn had avoided most of the second war with the goblins, but his fate may have only been delayed.

  Following the sound of gurgling water, he carefully approached the river, which was small and angry in that area of the ravine. Water frothed over moss-covered rocks that were nestled among massive boulders and crisscrossed by rotting logs draped with stringy vines.

  Most of Nolyn’s life had been spent in the northwestern imperial provinces along the Bern and Urum rivers, areas with temperate climates, maple trees, rolling hills, stone walls, and four seasons. The southeastern world of unbearable heat and humidity was an alien place, and he soon discovered that this jungle world was home to many peculiarities. He’d been in the province of Calynia for less than a week, and he’d already seen cats the size of deer, beetles as large as apples, and hairy spiders bigger than his hand. Nolyn hated arachnids and was absolutely certain the horrors with eight legs shouldn’t be capable of growing beards.

  Surveying the leafy glade cut by the headwater, Nolyn knew his peril. If I were hunting me, I’d stake out this river. Everything needs water to survive.

  That didn’t change his thirst, a condition made all the more intolerable by the closeness of the river. Nolyn crept through the undergrowth, searching for a place where the plants came closest to the stream. He avoided stepping into the open. Instead, he inched his way through the dense leaves of the jungo plants, which were the size and shape of elephant ears. That was another thing that defied reason. Everyone else in Urlineus acted like the giant, long-nosed animals were unexceptional.

  What is with this place and all the gigantism?

  Still several feet from the salvation of running water, Nolyn heard a rustle just to his left. Nothing so obvious as a snapping branch or the hideous clacking of claws, but something moved—something big. He crouched lower, then froze.

  Breathing.

  There’s either a water buffalo ten feet away or a ghazel. His mind, which couldn’t remember a name, was prone to devolve into silliness when he was on edge, so it added or an elephant.

  Nolyn waited, listening to the deep breaths.

  It’s just beyond this curtain of leaves. If I move, it will hear me.

  Nolyn struggled to remain still. He was little more than an arm’s length from the rushing river. He could hear its spray hitting the broad-faced leaves, which sounded like rain on a tent’s roof. Being so close to the ecstasy of drinking was maddening.

  Leave, you dumb elephant!

  It did move, but not away. Nolyn heard the shift of weight and the scrape of a foot as whatever was over there settled in.

  What if it’s only an animal? I could be sitting here for no good reason. Even if it’s a goblin, I could kill just one.

  During the First Goblin War, he’d killed hundreds, but not a single one had been easy, and no victory was certain. On too many occasions, he’d nearly died. Some battles left him terrified by how close he’d come; other fights left him seriously wounded.

  In this jungle, even a light wound would be fatal.

  Nolyn continued to wait, trying to find reasons to remain hidden. Then Thirst came up with ideas of its own: You’re running out of time. The only hope is to use the daylight to get back past the front lines. Your muscles will stiffen again, and you’re already severely dehydrated from sweating. You’ll grow weaker the longer you wait. You might even go mad.

  That last one was flimsy. Nolyn figured he was already a bit insane, and being a little crazy might actually give him an advantage. In the end, he simply couldn’t take waiting anymore. Gripping his blade tightly and clenching his teeth, he took a deep breath and crashed through the curtain of green. He slashed his way forward until his blade struck against metal.

  He found himself face-to-face with Amicus.

  With the swords still locked over their heads, Nolyn pulled back in surprise. Amicus glared at him.

  “Sorry,” Nolyn said. “Couldn’t see who it was through the leaves.”

  “Scared a year out of me.” Amicus lowered his blade. “I didn’t hear a thing, just noticed the leaves quiver an instant before—you’re lucky I didn’t take your head off . . . sir.” His voice was angry, shaken, and the honorific perfunctory.

  Nolyn smiled. “I was thinking the same about you.”

  Amicus smirked.

  “I only mean that . . .” Nolyn held up his sword that was still tarnished with goblin blood. “This blade tends to break others, and we hit pretty hard.”

  Amicus looked at Nolyn’s sword and then down at his own. “Mine aren’t general issue, either.”

  Nolyn moved to the river. He’d waited long enough. Getting down on hands and knees, he pressed his lips to the surface. The water, which came down from the mountains in a thousand little streams, would be uncomfortably tepid by the time it reached the sea, but there it was wonderfully cold. The gurgling froth had a beer-like effervescence, and he drank deeply, sucking the water up until he ran out of air and had to stop. After a long inhale, he bent down and drank some more. After the second draught, he forced himself to pause to avoid getting sick.

  A quick look around revealed that he and Amicus were the only two on the little moss-covered bank. “So, what happened?” he asked, wiping his mouth.

  “I was going to ask you.”

  “Me?” Nolyn said, getting to his knees. “When the cliff came down, I cut my way into the darkness and fell behind a log somewhere. Couldn’t see a thing.”

  “Really? I thought your people could see in the dark. You know, lik
e the ghazel.”

  “My people?” Nolyn rinsed his blade in the river. “I’ve only met one other person in the world like me. And by that, I mean someone who shares human and Fhrey parents. I suppose there’s bound to be more by now. The races have lived together over the centuries, but I doubt you’ve run into any. So, when you say my people, who are you referring to?”

  Amicus shook his head in disgust. “Forget it.”

  Nolyn wiped down his blade using the tails of his tunic. Getting to his feet, he dropped the sword into its scabbard.

  Whether it was due to the water or Amicus’s presence, Nolyn felt significantly better—even safer, which was absurd. Amicus Killian was undoubtedly an amazing warrior, but the two of them stood no chance against the jungle and several hundred warriors from the Ghazel Nation. Still, life was filled with a lot of things that didn’t make sense: Nolyn was frightened of spiders that couldn’t hurt him but never hesitated when riding a galloping horse into battle, he loved Sephryn but abandoned her, he hated his father yet followed the emperor’s every command.

  I could have died at twenty and considered my life a happy one. By human standards, I’m practically immortal, but I’ve done little that brings me joy. My existence is one big, ironic joke.

  The river flowed through the canyon, cascading over rocks. The rest was lost to a sea of massive plants, towering trees, looping vines, and a massive—

  “Snake!” He pointed to the yellow-and-orange serpent, the thickness of Nolyn’s thigh. It dangled from a tree branch, watching them. Another example of Calynia’s infatuation with enlarging average everyday things into monsters.

  “I’ve been calling him Rascal,” Amicus said.

  “You named it?”

  “It probably wasn’t the best option.” Amicus took a second look at the abominable beast, whose head was up, tilted, and looking directly at him. “I should have named him Sloth, or gone for irony and dubbed him Speedy, but hindsight makes everything easy, doesn’t it?”