Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (43 page)

“Wow,” Mauvin said, looking at Arista. “You’d marry him? That’s really sick.”

“Supplies are being prepared,” Modina explained. “Food kits designed by Ibis Thinly will be packed along with lanterns, ropes, harnesses, axes, cloth, pitch, blankets, and everything else we can think of that you might need.”

“Then we will leave as soon as the supplies are ready,” Arista declared.

“So it’s settled.” Modina stood and all the others followed suit. “May Maribor guide your steps.”

M
yron sat curled up on his bunk, bundled deep in several layers of blankets. He had his hood up and a candle in his hand, which hovered over a giant book spread across his knees. He shared Hadrian’s room in the knights’ dormitories. The room lacked a window and fireplace, leaving it dark as well as cold. Only a plain green drape covering one wall interrupted the drab space. Myron did not mind; he liked the room.

He took his meals in the kitchen. Breakfast was early and supper late, working on abbey time. He visited Red, the elkhound, daily and said his prayers alone. In many ways, it reminded him of the abbey. He had expected he would be homesick by now, but the feeling never came. This surprised him at first, but
home
, he realized, was not so much a place as an idea that, like everything else, grew and blossomed along with the person. Being away gave him a new insight that the abbey was no longer his home—he carried his home with him now, and his family was not just a handful of monks.

He forced his eyes to focus on the book before him. Lord Amberlin of Gaston Loo had just discovered that he was descended from the Earl of Gast, who had defeated the invading Lumbertons at the Battle of Primiton Tor. He had no idea
who Lord Amberlin was nor who the Lumbertons might be, but it was fascinating just the same. Everything he read still fascinated him.

A knock at the door caused him nearly to spill the candle. He put the book away and, opening up, was greeted by a familiar page.

“My lord.”

Myron smiled. The boy always called him that, and Myron found each instance funny. “The lady Alenda requests an audience with you in the small east parlor. She is there now. Will you see her or shall I respond with a message?”

Myron stood puzzled for a moment. “Lady who?”

“The lady Alenda of Glouston.”

“Oh,” he said. “Ah, I’ll go, but… ah, could you show me the way? I don’t know where the east parlor is.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

The page turned and began walking, leaving Myron to quickly close the door and trot after him. “What is Lady Alenda like?” Myron asked.

The page glanced at him, surprised. “She’s your sister, my lord. At least, that is what she said.”

“Yes, she is, but… Do you know what she wants?”

“No, my lord. The lady Alenda did not say.”

“Did she sound angry?”

“No, my lord.”

They reached the small parlor, with its hearty fire’s warm glow. The room was filled with many soft upholstered chairs and couches, lending the chamber a friendly feel. Rich tapestries depicting a hunt, a battle, and a spring festival covered the walls.

Two women jumped to their feet the moment he entered. The foremost was dressed in a beautiful black gown of brocade with a high collar and tight bodice composed of many
buttons, lace, and trimming. The second wore a much simpler, but nonetheless rich, black gown of kersey.

Having spent almost his entire life in a monastery on top of a remote hill, Myron had met few people, and even fewer women—and none like these two. They were both as beautiful as a pair of deer.

They promptly curtsied and Myron was not sure what that meant.

Am I supposed to curtsy as well?

Before he could decide, one of them spoke. “My lord,” the nearest woman said while still bent down. “I am your sister, Alenda, and with me is my maid Emily.”

“Hello,” he said awkwardly. “I’m Myron.”

He held out his hand. Alenda, still in full curtsy, looked up, confused. She spotted his outstretched arm and gave an odd glance to the other woman before taking it. She kissed the back of his hand.

Myron hauled his hand back, shocked. A long uncomfortable silence followed.

“I really wish I had some cookies to offer you,” he said at length.

Again, silence.

“We always had cookies at the abbey for guests.”

“I want to ask your forgiveness, Your Lordship,” Alenda burst out in a quavering voice, “for failing to meet you before this. I know it was wrong of me and that you have every reason to be angry. I have come now to beg you to be merciful.”

Myron looked at the woman before him, baffled. He blinked several times.

“You are begging mercy—from
me
?”

Alenda looked at him, horrified. “Oh please, my lord, have pity. I didn’t even know you lived until I was fourteen, and then I heard about you only in passing during a dinner conver
sation. It really wasn’t until I was nineteen that I fully realized I had another brother and that Father had sentenced you to that awful place. I know I am not blameless. I realize my misdeeds and fully admit to you my foul nature. When I heard you lived, I should have come at once and embraced you, but I did not. Still, you must understand I am not accustomed to traveling abroad and visiting strange men, even if they are my long-lost brother. If only our father had brought me to you—but he refused and sadly I did not press.”

Myron stood frozen in place.

Looking at him, Alenda wailed, “Sentence me as you must, but please do not torture me any longer. My heart cannot stand it.”

Myron’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stepped back, stunned.

Alenda stood wavering on her feet. In the silence between them, she looked at the frayed, coarse woolen frock he wore and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped toward him, her hands shaking. She reached out, touching his garment, letting it play between her fingers, and whispered with a closing throat, “I am sorry for how Father treated you. I am sorry for how I treated you. I am sorry for all that you have been forced to endure by our selfishness, but please don’t turn me out into the cold. I’ll do whatever you ask, but please have pity.” Alenda fell to her knees before him weeping into her hands.

Myron fell to his own knees and, reaching out, put his arms around his sister and hugged her. “Please stop crying. I don’t know what I did to hurt you, but I’m very sorry.” He looked up at Emily and mouthed, “Help me.”

The maid just stared at him in shock.

Alenda looked up, dabbing the tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “You aren’t going to strip me of my title? Drive me off our land and force me to fend for myself?”

“Oh dear Maribor, no!” Myron exclaimed. “I could never do that! But—”

“You won’t?”

“Of course not! But—”

“Will you—could you also grant me my dowry of the Rilan Valley?” she said, and then very quickly added, “I only ask because no decent man would ever marry a woman without an adequate dowry. Without this I would continue to be a burden to you and the estate. Of course, the Rilan is very good land and I understand that you may not want to part with it, but Father promised it to me. Still I would be happy with anything you are willing to grant.”

“But I can’t give you anything. I’m only a monk of the Winds Abbey.” He pulled the cloth of his frock out from his chest. “This is all I own. This is all I’ve ever owned. And technically I think this belongs to the abbey.”

“But—” Alenda looked at him, stunned. “Don’t you know?”

Myron waited, blinking again.

“Our father and brothers are all gone, fallen in the battle against the elves. They died at Drondil Fields—”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Myron said. He patted her hand. “I mourn for your loss. You must feel awful.”

“They were your family as well.”

“Yes, of course, but I was not as close to them as you were. Actually, I only met Father, and just once. But that does not diminish my sympathy for you. I am so sorry for you. Is there anything I can do?”

A questioning furrow across her brow, Alenda exchanged looks with Emily.

“I’m not sure you understand. With their passing, our family’s fortune and title passes to you. They left you your inheritance. You are the Marquis of Glouston. You own thousands of acres of land, a castle, villages—barons and knights are all
yours to command. You control the lives of hundreds of men and women who live or die at your decree.”

Myron shivered and grimaced. “No, no. I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. I want none of that. I don’t suppose I could trouble you to take care of those things?”

“So I can have the Rilan Valley?”

“Oh no—well, I mean, yes—I mean, everything. I don’t want it. You can have it all—well, are there any books?”

“A few, I think,” Alenda said, dazed.

“Then can I have those?” he asked. “You can have them back if you want after I read them, but if you don’t, I’d like to make them part of the library at Windermere. Would that be all right?”

“Are you saying you want me to assume ownership of all of Glouston? Everything—except the books?”

Myron nodded and glanced at Emily. “If that is too much trouble, perhaps your friend could help. Maybe she could have some of those castles and knights—you know, many hands make light work.”

Alenda nodded with her mouth still open.

Myron smiled. “Was there anything else?”

Alenda shook her head slowly.

“Okay, well, it was very nice meeting you.” He reached out and shook Alenda’s hand. “Both of you.” He shook Emily’s as well. Neither said a word.

He exited through the door and leaned with his back against the wall, feeling as if he had just escaped death itself.

“There you are,” Hadrian called to him as he approached up the corridor, clutching a small notebook. “The page told me you were here.”

“The strangest thing just happened,” Myron told him, pointing back at the parlor door.

“Save it.” He held out the book. “You need to read this tonight. The whole thing. Can you do that?”

“Just the one?”

Hadrian smiled. “I knew I could count on you.”

“What is it?”

“Edmund Hall’s journal.”

“Oh my!”

“Exactly. And tomorrow you can tell me all about it on the road. It will help to pass the time.”

“Road—tomorrow?” Myron asked. “Am I going back to the abbey?”

“Better—you’re going to be a hero.”

A
s far as prison cells went, Wyatt Deminthal had seen far worse. Despite the stone, it was surprisingly warm and remarkably similar to the solitary cell he had been occupying for the past several weeks. The small bed he sat on was nicer than most of the rooms he had rented and much better than the ship hammocks he was used to. A small window, high up, allowed light to splash the far wall. Wyatt had to admit it was a fine room. He might have even found it comfortable if not for the locked door and the dwarf staring at him.

The dwarf had already been in the cell when they had brought Wyatt in, and the guards had not bothered with introductions. He had a brown braided beard and a broad flat nose, and he was dressed in a blue leather vest, with large black boots. Despite having been roommates for several hours, neither had said a word. The dwarf grumbled occasionally, shuffled his boots as he shifted position, but said nothing. Instead, he had a nasty habit of staring. Little round eyes peered out from beneath bushy eaves—eyebrows that matched his beard in color if not in neatness. Wyatt had known few dwarves, but they always sported carefully groomed beards.

“So you’re a sailor,” the dwarf muttered.

Wyatt, who had been passing the time by playing with the feather in his hat, raised his head and nodded. “And you’re a dwarf.”

“What was your first clue?” The little fellow smirked. “What’d you do?”

Wyatt did not see any point in avoiding the question. Lies were told to protect one’s future, and Wyatt had no illusions of his. “I’m responsible for destroying Tur Del Fur.”

The dwarf sat up, interested. “Really? What part?”

“The whole city—well, technically all of Delgos, if you think about it. I mean, without the protection of Drumindor, the port is lost and the rest is helpless.”

“You destroyed an entire country?”

“Pretty much.” Wyatt nodded miserably, then sighed.

The dwarf continued to stare at him, now in fascination.

“How about you?” Wyatt asked. “What did you do?”

“I tried to steal a dagger.”

Now it was Wyatt’s turn to stare. “Really?”

“Sure, but you have to remember—I’m a dwarf. You’ll probably get a slap on the wrist. After all, you only destroyed a country. I’ll likely be ripped apart by wild dogs.”

The door to the chamber opened, and while Wyatt had never actually seen her before, there was no mistaking Empress Modina Novronian. She entered flanked by guards and a spindly man in a foppish wig.

“Both of you are guilty of crimes,” she said. “Punishable by execution.”

Wyatt was surprised at the sound of her voice. He had expected an icier tone, a shrill superiority common to high nobility. She sounded—oddly enough—like a young girl.

“Wyatt Deminthal,” the spindly man in the wig said formally. “For wanton acts that precipitated and enabled the invasion of Delgos and the destruction of Tur Del Fur by the
Ba Ran Ghazel, you are hereby found guilty of high treason against mankind and this empire. Punishment will be execution by beheading, to be carried out immediately.”

The empress then turned to the dwarf and once more the thin man spoke. “Magnus the dwarf, for the murder of King Amrath, you are hereby found guilty and sentenced to death by beheading, also to be carried out at once.”

“Seems you left something out,” Wyatt said to the dwarf, who only grumbled in response.

“Both of your lives are over,” Modina said. Then: “When I leave this room, the headsman will escort you to the block in the courtyard, where your punishment will be administered. Is there anything you would like to say before I leave?”

“My daughter…” Wyatt began, “she’s innocent. So is Elden—the big guy with her. I beg you, please don’t punish them.”

“They are safe and free to go. But where do you think they will go once you’re dead? You’ve been caring for them both for many years, haven’t you? While Elden may make a fine babysitter, he’s not much of a provider, is he?”

“Why are you saying this?” It mystified Wyatt that such a young girl could be so cruel.

“Because I would like to make you an offer, Mr. Deminthal. I would like to make both of you an offer. Given your positions, I think it is a very good one. I want the two of you to do a task for me. It will involve a difficult journey that I suspect will be very dangerous. If you agree, then upon your return, I shall absolve you both of your crimes.”

“And if I don’t come back? What happens to Elden and Allie?”

“Elden will go with you. I need experienced sailors and strength. I think he’ll be useful.”

“What about Allie? I won’t have her going to some prison or orphanage. Can she come as well?”

“No, as I mentioned, the trip will be dangerous, so she will remain with me. I will be her guardian while you are away.”

“What if I don’t come back? What if neither Elden or I…”

“If that happens, I promise that I will personally adopt her.”

“You will?”

“Yes, Mr. Deminthal. If you succeed, you will be forgiven of all crimes you have committed. If you fail, I will make your daughter my daughter. Of course, you can refuse my offer, in which case I have to ask if you would prefer a blindfold or not. It’s your choice.”

“And me?” Magnus asked.

“I offer you the same thing. Do as I ask, and you’ll live. I’ll consider your service as fulfillment of your sentence. In your case, however, there is one additional stipulation. Mr. Deminthal has proved that his ties to his daughter are strong enough to hold him to his commitments. You, on the other hand, have no such attachments and have a talent for disappearing. I can’t afford to let you out of this cell without some insurance. I know a sorceress who can find anyone, anywhere, using only a strand of hair, and your beard is ever so long.”

Magnus’s eyes widened in alarm.

“It’s your choice, master dwarf, your beard or your neck.”

“Do we at least get to know where we are going, and what we will be doing?” Wyatt asked.

“Does it matter?”

Wyatt thought a moment, then shook his head.

“You’ll be accompanying a team to the ancient city of Percepliquis to find a very important relic that might just save mankind. If you succeed at that, I think you deserve to be forgiven for any crime.

“There is just one more thing. You’ll be accompanied by Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. As for you, Wyatt, they know nothing of your involvement with Merrick. I sug
gest you keep it that way. Merrick is dead, and nothing good can come from revealing your involvement in Tur Del Fur.”

Wyatt nodded toward the dwarf. “I already told him.”

“That’s all right. I doubt Master Magnus will be speaking to them much. Magnus has had, shall we say, his own misunderstandings with Riyria, not to mention the children of King Amrath, who will also be along for the trip. I suspect he’ll be on his best behavior, won’t you, Magnus?”

The dwarf’s face showed concern but he nodded.

“So, gentlemen, the choice is yours. Risk your lives for me and have a chance to become heroes of the empire, or refuse and die now as criminals.”

“That’s not much of a choice,” the dwarf growled.

“No—no, it isn’t. But it is all you have.”

Hadrian slowly climbed the steps. It felt like there were more of them this time. Aside from speaking to Myron, Hadrian had spent all night, and a good part of the next day, walking the corridors and courtyard, trying to formulate an argument—a reason that would convince Royce to go.

The guard heard him coming and was on his feet, key in hand. He looked bored. “You’ve come to take him?” he asked without interest. “I was told you’d be by—expected you earlier.”

Hadrian only nodded in reply.

“So much fuss about this little guy? From hearing the talk around the palace, you’d think he was Uberlin himself,” the guard continued as he placed the key in the lock. “He’s been quieter than a mouse. A few nights ago, I heard him crying—muffled sobs, you know? Not exactly the demon I was warned about.”

Royce had not moved. Nothing in the cell had changed since Hadrian’s last visit.

“You wanna give me a minute?” Hadrian asked the guard, who stood behind him.

“Huh? Oh—sure. Take your time.”

Hadrian stood silently at the open door. Royce did not move. He continued to sit with his head bowed.

Hadrian sighed. After all his searching, his thinking, his wandering, his solution seemed feeble at best. He had held dozens of mental debates in which he had played both sides of the arguments, but when he sat across from Royce, he had only one thing he could say. “I need your help.”

Royce looked up as if his head weighed a hundred pounds, his eyes red, his face ashen. He waited.

“One last job,” Hadrian told him, then added, “I promise.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Very.”

“Is there a good chance I’ll get killed?”

“Odds are definitely in favor of that.”

Royce nodded, looked down at the scarf in his lap, and replied, “Okay.”