Lyn

The journey took several days, and Lyn couldn’t even glance at the scenery around him — the carriage they traveled in for some reason did not have a single window.

At least this tomb had lamps, and Lyn spent most of the trip reading. With his companions — Cassiodorus, an old man resembling a dried-up fish, and Sophia, younger but of a similar type — he exchanged barely a few phrases. It was as if they were afraid of him. They'd never witnessed Archon's drunken sermons, had they? What a missed opportunity. Or perhaps the scarlet Chinian silk outfit really gave him an air of authority?

A few days before his departure, Lyn heard the usual knock at his door. Sober and sullen, he had been standing before a mirror but turned at the sound to see Antipater staring at him as if Lyn were the wrath of God. Lyn tilted his head slightly in a theatrically cold manner.

“Good Lord, my One and Only God,” muttered Antipater (and actually crossed himself). He stood in silence so long that Lyn began to wonder if he had overdone it. The outfit was majestically wide at the bottom but indecently tight above the waist. Despite its full coverage (collar almost to his chin, sleeves down to his knuckles, and a hem dragging on the floor), it still somehow bordered on the improper. Moreover, Lyn had painted his lips the same bloody scarlet as his clothes. If you’re labeled as a saint from a brothel, you might as well live up to it.

Had Lyn looked even a bit healthier, the ensemble might have been entirely over the top. But if you had to define the opposite of “blooming,” everyone would imagine exactly what Lyn now saw in the mirror.

“Well, go ahead, pass your fashion judgment. Will the Council approve this?” he asked.

At the sound of his voice, the old man seemed to snap out of some spell. He blinked several times, nodded.

“Yes… yes, it’s suitable.” And after another glance at Lyn, utterly astonished, he opened his mouth as if to speak but then looked away and left — apparently forgetting why he had come.

Perhaps he wanted to ask: if you can look like that, why would you choose to be the person waking up in a puddle of your own vomit, not remembering your own name or why the gods invented baths? And Lyn would have answered...

Nothing. Lyn would have said nothing because he would have had to explain everything from the very beginning.

"My speech?"

"Yes, memorize it; tomorrow you will deliver it to inspire the soldiers. And the day after, you will meet the commanders, Anticlos and Constantine, who will brief you on the war and explain how you can assist..."

"Assist?"

"Why do you keep repeating after me like a parrot? Haven’t you heard the tales of the Archons’ deeds? Where did you grow up, in a forest?.. You are our sword and shield when the empire’s strength alone is insufficient. From above, on the magical bird, the Arya lands are laid bare, revealing hidden mountain cities, fortifications, and shelters where their people hide. That’s where you strike... Don’t be shy, you’re a hero, the future savior of the country!"

Antipater did not accompany Lyn. The day before their departure, a misfortune happened: the old man was hit by a carriage speeding so fast that no one had time to notice who it belonged to. He survived, with a couple of fractures and severe bruises, but at his age, the injuries were too serious for him to travel across the country.

Instead, Lyn was accompanied by two individuals who called themselves bodyguards — but they were clearly not. Lyn’s mother, lady Ilithyia, once had a bodyguard: a tall girl full of heavy, slow grace who was so silent Lyn wondered if her tongue had been cut out. Perhaps she simply didn’t know Hellenic. Ilithyia called her by a Bizantine name, Anna, but she looked like she came from the Gauts or somewhere up north. So Lyn knew a thing or two about bodyguards: their job was to watch the surroundings discreetly but attentively. Staring only at the person they were supposed to guard? That they definitely shouldn’t do.

When questioned, Lyn’s “guards” were suspiciously evasive. (“Who sent you? — The Council, my lord Archon, who else? — But who specifically assigned you? — We don’t know, sir, we’re small people.”) Judging by Antipater’s lack of enthusiasm, these two weren’t from the Church. Refusing their “protection” wasn’t an option.

The place where the negotiations were to take place — Iron Pass, the last town of the Empire near the borders with the Arya domain — turned out to be less a town and more a camp surrounded by a palisade.

Lyn, Cassiodorus, and Sophia were each given a private room. Lyn’s seemed to belong to an officer but was extremely Spartan: a table, a chair with an exceptionally stiff back, a candle stump, a roughly nailed-together chest for belongings, an icon of the One God on a shelf in the corner, a narrow bed with a poorly patched hole in the bottom, and a chamber pot beneath. His “bodyguards” settled on the floor in the same room, dashing Lyn’s last hope they might sleep in the soldiers’ barracks.

The only bright spot was the fireplace in the next room; Lyn hoped its presence meant there might be hot baths. But no such luck. Firewood was rationed, the water could best be described as lukewarm, and after washing, Lyn felt even colder than before — nights in the foothills were bone-chillingly cold. He spent the night trembling under all the blankets he could find. The presence of the “guards” also didn’t help, and by morning Lyn felt as if he hadn’t slept at all.

The next day, an Arya delegation approached Iron Pass. Lyn’s companions, including the ever-serious Sophia and Cassiodorus, crowded at the camp’s walls like curious children, peeking at the foreigners through gaps in the palisade.

The delegation was surprisingly unimpressive: no horses, no carriages. They set up a few tents and raised twelve banners with colorful patterns representing their clans.

"Something tense... It feels like everyone’s counting down to a grand massacre..." Lyn muttered, addressing no one in particular.

"Perhaps we should open the gates?" suggested Sophia to the commander of the Iron Pass garrison, if such a handful of soldiers could be called a garrison. "The Archon is right. It’s time to remind everyone why we’re here: for peace."

"It’s dangerous," the commander objected. "If anything happens... With all due respect, Your Graces, you’ve never been to war. These creatures can jump through space — at least, some of them do. If they’ve been to a place or even seen it from the inside. We can’t let them glimpse the camp’s interior, or it’ll be all over..."

Lyn had heard something like that before but had dismissed it as a fairy tale. Now he better understood why the carriage they had arrived in uncomfortably resembled a sealed tomb.

"So you expect us to sign the agreement in an open field?" Cassiodorus asked the fortress commander sarcastically. "I was at the Battle of Pontus, by the way. And let me tell you, my dear friend: 'if anything happens,' neither these gates nor this palisade will stop their black twins. Do you even have any serious weaponry?"

The officer’s expression turned worried.

"Depends on what you mean by serious... But we have the Archon. He can, you know..."—and he made a telling gesture across his throat. Lyn forced a strained smile.

Sophia concluded, "Let’s start small. Open the gates. Let people come and go... The barbarians must be tired from their journey and hungry. Perhaps the traders will offer them something."

The garrison commander reluctantly gave the order to open the gates. For a long time, nothing happened, but gradually the curious from the fortress began to venture outside. The first to do so were the children — offspring of the camp’s cooks and sutlers. A ten-year-old girl, daring to exchange a few words with one of the Arya, returned to report:

"They need water. The nearest stream is an hour away from here."

"Why don’t they just skip over for it through space if it’s so easy for them?" Lyn remarked.

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Perhaps, for someone as terrible with people as you, Archon, this is news, but a request for help often masks a step toward friendship. And believe me, for proud people like Arya, that’s quite a significant step." Turning to the garrison commander, she instructed, "Send a water carrier to them with a couple of barrels."

Lyn decided he liked Sophia. She was friendly and proactive — a rare and valuable combination of qualities. Far more often, he encountered people who were either wildly aggressive or completely indifferent.

During these negotiations, Lyn was supposed to play the role of a statue—to do nothing unnecessary, preferably not even move, and maintain a threatening silence. But curiosity got the better of him. Wandering aimlessly around the Arya tents, like the children from the camp who pretended they weren’t interested, seemed utterly foolish; so he simply stepped outside the gates, approached the camp, and observed from a distance.

There was plenty to see. Even Arya’s clothing was... unusual. It wasn’t about the fact that Bizantines wore tunics and cloaks — the churchmen frowned upon excessive interest in bodily beauty, considering it proper to obscure the figure with voluminous, layered garments. The main thing was that in Bizanth, clothing spoke volumes about a person’s occupation and whether he was rich or poor. With these Arya, you couldn’t glean anything from their attire. Their outfits were most reminiscent of travel or hunting gear — not a single impractical or non-functional item among them. Pants, knee-length shirts cinched with metal belts, jackets or vests, and short boots soft as a second skin. And all this was the same for both men and women. Yet, it wasn’t a uniform: while the outfits shared a common spirit, everyone’s details differed. The colors were deliberately muted—white, black, gray, cream, or pine bark — but the fabrics themselves were of extraordinary quality, smooth and soft. The embroidery on their pants was incredibly intricate and beautiful, as were the embellishments on their jackets and vests. So much for barbarians. And the patterned links of the belts cinching their long shirts — were they pure silver and gold?

Arya themselves were equally inscrutable. All were slim and fit; their movements were precise — sharp yet fluid. Lyn hadn’t even seen soldiers move like that; probably wield a sword and bow better than many. Warriors? The women too? But pitching tents, lighting fires, cooking — these weren’t tasks for warriors, yet everyone performed them skillfully and seemingly with enjoyment. Lyn saw no servants among them.

Their communication was just as enigmatic. Lyn couldn’t figure out who among the envoys was the leader. They set up their camp with synchronized efficiency, as though they were a single mechanism, each person knowing exactly what needed to be done and working with equal diligence.

Well, not everyone. That hefty red-haired lad with the intelligent, heart-shaped-faced owl on his shoulder wandered lazily around the camp, clearly shirking work and somehow subtly standing apart from the others...

At some point, the Arya noticed Lyn and turned their heads toward him. All at once, as if on command. How unnerving.

They clearly knew who he was, though Lyn had no idea how: he was standing too far away for anyone to see the mark on his forehead. These barbarians looked at him with such hatred, fear, and disgust, as though Lyn embodied all the world’s evil in human form. It stung unexpectedly. He lifted his chin, telling himself he wasn’t hurt, and strutted back and forth past the tents in his splendid scarlet attire.

"Holy Aphrodite’s tits," someone muttered in perfect Hellenic, with either admiration or disdain.

Lin spun toward the voice. It was that same Arya shirking work, the one with the owl on his shoulder. He was dressed like the others and similarly long-haired, but he looked at Lyn differently from his companions: mockingly, without fear. Lyn tried to imagine him without the copper-chestnut mane and many ring-bound thin braids framing his face, instead sporting a short Byzantine haircut. It oddly suited him. The guy was a Hellene. No, more likely a Romei.

Another Arya quickly said something to him in an unfamiliar language, clearly urging him to hold his tongue. Wise advice; Sophia and Cassiodorus had actually told Lyn quite clearly not to open his mouth either.

Lyn stepped closer. The shifter who had warned his companion now addressed him in Hellenic, slowly and with deliberate enunciation:

"May your days be joyful and long, Archon of This World. Forgive my companion if he has insulted your esteemed person."

Lyn nodded vaguely, unsure how to engage with these strange people without making a misstep. To the supposed Hellene (or a Romei), he asked:

"Did you say something about my appearance?"

"Better I bite my tongue," the redhead said, looking Lyn up and down. "But, a raven take me, it’s difficult."

"No, no, say it. I designed this outfit myself; I’m curious." Lyn gestured grandly. "I’m feeling generous today. I left my magical bird at home, so I won’t incinerate anyone."

The redhead smirked and responded amicably enough:

"Are you the one they call ‘the saint from the brothel’? I knew right away. This outfit really does look like you couldn’t decide whether to be the most expensive courtesan in the establishment or a sacrificial offering."

It was bold. Too bold.

And, incidentally, rather astute — when sketching the design for his tailors, Lyn had thought precisely that.

"And also a sword in its sheath," he recalled Ilithyia’s words. "I am a man of many talents."

"And of boundless modesty, too," the stranger remarked, shaking his head. "My mother used to say in such cases: ‘Grasp all, lose all.’"

The stranger didn’t just speak like a Hellene or a Romei; his accent marked him as someone born and raised in the Great City, just like Lyn himself. His choice of words, though clearly uncalculated, suggested he’d grown up in a far better family than Lin’s.

"I can be modest. But only on Mondays. Well, well, so, you're from the capital and of noble birth," Lyn squinted. "Were you some kind of big shot? If they trade you for something valuable, will they let you return to the Great City?"

Now the redhead stared at him with genuine hostility.

"I am neither a prisoner nor a trophy. And I have no intention of returning there unless... unless fate compels me."

But before he could retreat to his companions, Lyn grabbed his arm and dragged him further away from the Arya tents.