Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (48 page)

“This is very good.” Wyatt spoke up, pointing to the lamb on his plate.

“Thank you,” the cook replied.

“If it is, it will be the first time this place has served anything eatable,” Gaunt muttered. “Hurry up, woman!”

The cook, who stood behind him, made a
see what I mean?
face and dropped a chop on his plate.

“What time will you folks be getting up?” the cook asked. “You’ll be wanting breakfast, won’t you?”

“We’ll be leaving early,” Arista said. She caught a look from her brother. “Isn’t that right, Alric?” she added.

“Yes, yes, ah—dawn, I should think,” he said. “Breakfast should be before that. Something hot, I hope.”

“Seeing the business you’re bringing him, old Ayers would pay to poach venison if you wanted it. Course he ain’t gonna be too pleased you’re leaving tomorrow. I’m sure he’s hoping you’ll be here a week at least.”

“We’re in a hurry,” Arista explained.

Bella looked as if she might say more when the common room door opened again. “Bella, quit bugging them. I don’t pay you to chatter. I have orders for food. I need five stews and a plowman’s meal.”

“All right, all right!” she bellowed back. She turned to the diners and, with an awkward curtsy, rushed off to the kitchen.

The room was dark except for the moonlight that entered through the window and the glow of hot coals in the fireplace. Outside, the wind blew snow against the building. Royce could hear the muffled sounds of voices rising through the floorboards as everyone ate dinner. The shift of furniture, the clink of glasses—he had heard it all before.

Royce’s eyes focused on the street corner outside. He could see the start of the alley between Ingersol’s Leather Shop and a
silversmith. It was right there—on that very corner, that exact spot.

“That’s where I came from.” Royce spoke to the empty room, his words condensing on the window’s glass, making a tiny fog.

He remembered nights like this—cold, windy nights when it was hard to get to sleep. Most nights he had slept in a barrel packed with straw, but when it was really cold—the kind of cold that killed—he had climbed into barns and squeezed between sheep and cattle. Doing so was dangerous. Farmers listened to their animals, and if they found intruders, they assumed they were stealing.

Royce had been only eight, maybe ten years old. He had been freezing, his feet and hands numb, his cheeks burning. It was late and he had crawled into the stable on Legends Avenue. The rear stall was blocked off into a makeshift manger for four sheep. They lay curled up as one big wooly bed, their sides rising and falling like breathing pillows. Royce carefully crawled into the middle, feeling their body heat and the soft wool. They bleated at his intrusion, but given the size of the stall, they suffered his presence. In just a few minutes he fell asleep.

He woke to a farmer with a pitchfork. The farmer jabbed and nearly got Royce in the stomach. Royce rolled, taking the tongs in his shoulder. He screamed and scattered the sheep, which bounced off the walls. In the confusion, Royce escaped into the snow. The hour was late. It was still dark, and blood ran down his arm. He had not yet discovered the sewers and had no place to go. He returned to the barrel on the corner and climbed in, pulling as much straw over him as he could.

Royce remembered hearing “Ladies of Engenall” played on a fiddle from inside the Gnome. He listened to them all night: people singing, laughing, clinking glasses—all warm,
safe, and happy while outside he shivered and cried. His shoulder screamed in pain. The rags he wore hardened as the blood froze. Then it started to snow. He felt the flakes on his face and thought he would die that night. He was so certain that he prayed, and that was the first and last time he had ever asked the gods for help. The memory was so vivid he could almost smell the straw. He recalled lying there shivering, his eyes shut tight as he had whispered aloud to Novron, asking to be saved. He pleaded, reminding the god that he was only a child—a boy—only he knew that was a lie. He was not a boy—boys were human.

Royce was not human—not entirely. He was a
mir
, a half-breed, a mongrel.

He knew Novron would not help him. Novron and his father, Maribor, were the gods of men. Why would they listen to the words of an elf, a hated cur whose own parents had thrown him away as trash? Still, he begged for his life anyway. Because he did not look like an elf, the young Royce reasoned that maybe Novron would not notice.

Right down there, on that corner, Royce had begged to live.

He traced a circle on the window with his finger.

He always remembered it as the worst night of his life—he had been alone, terrified, dying. And he had been so happy the next morning when he was still alive. Starved, shaking from the cold, stiff from sleeping in a ball, shoulder throbbing, but as happy as a person could be.

Here I am, warm and comfortable in The Laughing Gnome, and I’d give anything to be in that barrel again.

A board creaked and Myron entered quietly. He hesitated at the door, then slowly crossed the room toward Royce and sat down on the bed near him.

“I used to sit for hours too,” the monk said, his voice soft, just a tad above a whisper. “I used to remember things… times and places, both good and bad. I would see something that reminded me of my past and wish I could go back. I wished I could be the way I used to be, even if that meant pain. Only I could never find my way around the wall. Do you know what I mean by
the wall
?”

Royce refused to answer. Myron did not seem to mind.

“After the burning of the abbey, I never felt whole again. Half of me was missing—gone—more than half. What was left was lost, like I didn’t know where I was or how to get back.”

Royce stared. He was breathing faster without knowing why.

“I tried to find a way to go on. I could see familiar traces of the path that was my life, but there was always the wall behind me. Do you know what I mean? First you try and climb, pretending it never happened, but it’s too tall. Then you try to go around, thinking you can fix it, but it is too far. Then, in frustration, you beat on it with your hands, but it does nothing, so you tire and sit down and just stare at it. You stare because you can’t bring yourself to walk away. Walking away means that you’re giving up, abandoning them.

“There is no way back. There is only forward. It’s impossible to imagine there’s any reason to move ahead, but that isn’t the real reason you give up. The real fear—the terror that keeps you rooted—is that you might be wrong.”

Royce reeled. It was as if Myron were rifling through his heart, opening sealed closets and exploring locked drawers. Royce gave Myron a withering look. If he were a dog, Royce would be growling, yet Myron seemed not to notice.

The little monk went on.

“Instead of passion, you have regret. In place of effort, you are mired in memory. You sink in nothingness and your heart drowns in despair. At times—usually at night—it’s a physical pain, both sharp and dull. The anguish is unbearable.”

Royce reached out and grabbed Myron by the wrist. He wanted him to stop—needed him to stop.

“You feel you have no choices. Your love for those who have gone makes you hold tight to their memory and the pain of their loss. You feel to do anything else would be disloyal to them,” Myron went on, placing his free hand on top of Royce’s and patting it gently.

“While the idea of leaving is at first impossible to contemplate, the question you need to ask is, how would they feel knowing that you are torturing yourself because of them? Is this what they would want? Is that what you would want them to do if the situation was reversed? If you love them, you need to let go of your pain and live your life. To do otherwise is a selfish cruelty.”

Hadrian opened the door and nearly dropped the plate of lamb. He stepped in hesitantly. “Everything all right here?” he asked.

“Get him away from me, before I kill him,” Royce growled between gritted teeth, his voice unsteady, his eyes hard.

“You can’t kill Myron, Royce,” Hadrian said, rapidly pulling the monk away as if he had found a child playing with a wild bear. “It would be like killing a puppy.”

Royce did not want to kill Myron. He honestly did not know what he wanted, except for him to stop. Everything the monk had said hurt, because it was all true. The monk’s words were not close. They were not worrisomely accurate. What he said was dead-on, as if he were reading Royce’s mind and speaking his innermost thoughts aloud—holding his terrors to the light and exposing them.

“Are you all right, Royce?” Hadrian asked, still holding Myron close. His tone was cautious, nervous.

“He’ll be fine,” Myron replied for him.

The five boys and Myron had left the dinner table, followed shortly by Hadrian and Wyatt, who took plates up to Royce and Elden respectively. Alric, who had eaten his fill, loosened his belt but made no move to leave. He sat back, smiling, as Ayers brought out another bottle of wine and set it on the table before them. For the first time since they had started this trip, Alric was feeling good. This was more like it. He could see the same expression in Mauvin’s eyes. This was the dream of their youth: riding hard, exploring, seeing strange new sights, and in the evening settling in at a local inn for a fine meal and a night of drinking, laughing, and singing. At last, the carefree days of his boyhood—once stolen—now returned. This was an adventure at last. This was a man’s aspiration, a chance to live life to the fullest.

“My finest stock,” Ayers told them with pride.

“That’s awfully kind of you,” Arista said. “But we need to be getting up early tomorrow.”

“It’s not polite to insult a host like that, Arista,” Alric said, feeling her hands trying to strangle his dream.

“I didn’t—Alric, you can’t stay up all night drinking and expect to get an early start in the morning.”

He frowned at her. This was why she had never been included in his and Mauvin’s plans. “The man wants to honor us, all right? If you’re tired, go to bed and leave us be.”

Arista huffed loudly and threw her napkin on the table before walking out.

“Your sister isn’t pleased with you,” Gaunt observed.

“Are you just discovering that now?” Alric replied.

“Shall I open it?” Ayers asked.

“I don’t know,” Alric muttered.

“It would be best to do as she tells you,” Gaunt said.

“What’s that?”

“I only meant her being in charge and all. You don’t want to become the nail sticking out. I can see why you’re afraid of her and I sympathize, believe me. You saw the way she treated me when we left—but what can we do? She holds all the power.”

“She’s not in charge,” Alric growled. “I am.” He looked at Ayers. “Open that bottle, my good man, and pour liberally.”

Gaunt smiled. “I guess I misjudged you, Your Majesty. I’ve actually been doing too much of that. Take Magnus here, for example.”

Alric preferred not to. The idea that he had just finished a meal with—and was about to drink at the same table with—his father’s killer sickened him.

“I was offended that I had to ride with a dwarf, but it turns out he’s not a bad companion. True, he’s not exactly a big talker, but he’s interesting just the same. Did you know he’s held here by the hairs of his beard—literally? He’s another member of our exclusive club who your sister controls and forces to do her bidding.”