Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (55 page)

“Are there…?” she asked, pointing upward without looking.

Royce glanced up and shook his head.

“Good,” she replied. “And please, if Alric wants to know these things, fine, but don’t tell me. I could have gone the rest of my life not knowing they were there.” She shivered.

Everyone scurried out of the corridor except Myron, who lingered, staring up at the ceiling and smiling in fascination. “There are millions.”

They entered another chamber, a smaller cavern of dramatic boulders that thrust up and out. Arista thought they appeared how the timbers of a house might look if a giant stepped on it. As soon as they entered, they faced a mystery on the far wall, where three darkened passages awaited, one large, one small, and one narrow. The party waited as Royce disappeared briefly into each one. When he returned, he did not look pleased.

“Dwarf!” he snapped. “Which one?”

Magnus stepped forward and poked his head into each. He placed his hands on the stone, groping over the surface as if he were a blind man. He pressed his ear to the rock, sniffed the air in each opening, and stepped back with a perplexed look. “They all go deep, but in separate directions.”

Royce continued to stare at him.

“The stone doesn’t know where we want to go, so it can’t tell me.”

“We can’t afford to pick the wrong path,” Arista said.

“I say we choose the largest,” Alric stated confidently. “Wouldn’t that be the most sensible?”

“Why is that sensible?” Arista asked.

“Well—because it is the biggest, so it ought to go the farthest and, you know—get us there.”

“The largest might not remain that way,” Magnus replied. “Cracks in rock aren’t like rivers. They don’t taper evenly.”

Alric looked irritated. “Okay, what about you?” he asked Arista. “Can you do anything to—well—you know—find which is the right one?”

“Like what?”

“Do I need to spell it out? Like…” He waved his hands in the air in a mysterious fashion that she thought made him look silly. “Magic.”

“I knew what you meant, but what exactly do you expect me to do? Summon Novron’s ghost to point us in the right direction?”

“Can you do that?” the king asked, sounding both impressed and apprehensive.

“No!”

Alric frowned and slapped his thighs with his hands as if to indicate how horribly she had let him down. It irritated her how everyone seemed so disgusted by her talent and yet was even more upset when they found her ability lacking.

“Myron?” Hadrian said softly to the monk, who stood silently, staring at the passages.

“
Three openings. What to do?
” Myron said eerily.

“Myron, yes!” Alric smiled. “Tell us, which way did Hall go?”

“That’s what I am reciting to you,” he replied, trying to hide a little smile. “ ‘Three openings. What to do? I sat for an hour before I gave up trying to reason it out and just picked. I chose the closest.’ ”

Myron stopped, and when he failed to say more, Alric spoke. “The closest? What does that mean? Closest to what?”

“Is that all Hall wrote?” Arista asked. “What came next?”

Everyone crowded around the little man as he cleared his throat.

“ ‘Down, down, down, always down, never up. Slept in the corridor again. Miserable night. Food running low. Big-eyed fish looking better all the time. This is hopeless. I will die in here. I miss Sadie. I miss Ebot and Dram. I should never have come. This was a mistake. I have placed myself in my own
grave. Feet are always wet. Want to sleep, but don’t want to lie in water.

“ ‘A pounding. Pounding up ahead. A way out maybe!

“ ‘Pounding stopped. I don’t think it was from the outside. I think someone else is down here—something else. I hear them—not human.

“ ‘Ba Ran Ghazel. Sea goblins. A whole patrol. Nearly found me. Lost my shoe.

“ ‘Bread moldy, salted ham nearly gone. At least there is water. Tastes bad, brackish. Slept poorly again. Bad dreams.

“ ‘I found it.’ ”

“The shoe?” Wyatt asked.

“No,” Myron replied, smiling, “the city.”

“Interesting,” Gaunt said. “But that doesn’t help us with the passages, does it? By the sound of things he traveled for days and never listed any landmark. It’s pointless.”

“We could split up,” Alric said, considering. “Two groups of three and one of four. One group is bound to reach Percepliquis.”

Arista shook her head. “That only works if we can divide up Mr. Gaunt in three parts. He is the one who has to reach the city.”

“So you keep reminding me,” Gaunt said. “But you refuse to tell me exactly what you expect me to do. I am not a man of many talents. There is nothing I can do that someone else in this party can’t. I hope to Maribor you don’t expect me to slay one of those Gilly-bran things. I’m not much of a fighter.”

“I suppose you have to—I don’t know—blow the horn.”

“Couldn’t I have done that after you returned with it?”

Arista sighed. “There’s something else. I don’t know what. I just know you have to be here.”

“And yet we have no idea where
here
is,” he said indignantly.

Arista sighed and sat down on a rock, staring at the entrances. As she did, Alric stared at her.

“What?” she asked.

Alric smiled and glanced back at the passages. “I was wrong. Hall went in the narrow passage on the right.”

He sounded so certain that everyone looked at him.

“Care to tell us how you know that?” Arista asked.

He grinned, obviously very pleased with himself. “Sure, but first you have to tell me why you sat there,” he said to her.

“I don’t know. I was tired of standing and this might take a while.”

“Exactly,” Alric said. “What did you say, Myron? It took an hour for Hall to decide which passage?”

“Close. ‘I sat for an hour before I gave up trying to reason it out and just picked,’ ” the monk corrected.

“He sat for an hour trying to decide,” Alric replied. “He sat right where you are.”

“How do you know?” Gaunt asked. “How do you know it was on
that
rock and not someplace else?”

“Ask Arista,” the king replied. “Why did you sit there and not someplace else?”

She shrugged and looked around. “I didn’t really think about it. I just sat. I guess because it looked like the most comfortable place.”

“Of course it is. Look around. That rock is perfect for sitting. All the others are sharp on the top or at steep angles or too big or small. That is the perfect sitting rock for looking at those passages! And that’s the same reason Hall chose that spot, and the closest passage is the narrow one. Hall went in there. I’m positive.”

Arista looked at Royce, who looked at Hadrian, who shrugged. “I think he might be right.”

“Sounds good to me,” Royce said.

Arista nodded. “I think so too.”

Everyone seemed pleased except for Gaunt, who frowned but said nothing.

Alric adjusted his pack and, taking the lantern from Royce, promptly led the way.

“That lad might amount to something yet,” Mauvin said, chuckling, as he followed his king.

M
onsignor Merton shuffled along the dark snowy road, his black hood up, his freezing fingers gripping the neck of his frock. He shuffled for fear of falling on the ice he could not feel. The tip of his nose and the tops of his cheeks had gone from feeling cold to burning unpleasantly.

Maybe I have frostbite
, he thought.
What a sight I will be without a nose.
The thought did not bother him much; he could get along fine without one.

The hour was late. The shop windows were all black, dull sightless eyes reflecting his image. He had passed fewer than a dozen people since leaving the palace and all of them were soldiers. He felt sorry for the men who guarded the streets. The shopkeepers complained when they collected taxes, the vagrants wailed when they drove them off, and the criminals cursed them. They were half-shaven, blunt-nosed, loud, and always seen as bullies, but no one saw them on nights like this. The shopkeepers were all asleep in their beds, the vagrants and thieves tucked in their holes, but the soldiers of the empress remained. They felt the cold, suffered the wind, and endured exhaustion, but they bore their burdens quietly. As he shuffled on, Merton said a quiet prayer to Novron to give them strength
and make their night rounds easier. He felt foolish doing so.
Surely Novron knows the plight of his own. He does not need me reminding him. What an utter annoyance I must be, what a bother. It’s little wonder that I should lose my nose. Perhaps both feet should be taken as well.

“Without feet, Lord, how will I serve?” He spoke softly. His voice came out in clouds that drifted by as he walked. “For I am not fit for much else these days beyond carrying messages.”

He stopped. He listened. There was no answer.

Then he nodded. “I see, I see. Stop being a fool and walk faster and I will keep my feet. Very wise, my lord.”

On he trudged, and reaching the top of the hill, he turned off Majestic Avenue and entered Church Square. At the center of the dark void glowed the clerestory lights of the great cathedral, the Imperial Basilica of Aquesta. Now that Ervanon was no more—crushed and defiled by the elven horde—this was the seat of power of the Nyphron Church. Here emperors would be crowned, married, and laid to rest. Here Wintertide services would be performed. Here the Patriarch and his bishops would administer to the children of Maribor. While it had nowhere close to the majesty of the Basilica of Ervanon, it had something Ervanon had never had—the Heir of Novron, their earthly god returned. And not a moment too soon, was how Merton saw it, but gods had a flair for dramatic timing. He considered himself blessed to be granted life in such a wondrous time. He would be a living witness to the fulfillment of the promise and the return of Novron’s Empire, and in some small way he might even be allowed to contribute.

He climbed the steps to the massive doors and tugged on the ring. Locked. It always mystified Merton why the house of Novron should be sealed. He beat against the oak with his frozen fist.

The wind howled; the cold ripped mercilessly through his thin wool. He looked up, disappointed not to see stars overhead. He liked the stars, especially how they looked on cold nights, as if he could reach up and pluck one. As a boy, he had imagined that he might scoop them up and slip them into his pocket. He never imagined doing anything with the stars; he would just run his fingertips through them like grains of sand.

The door remained closed.

He hammered again. His hand made a feeble fleshy sound against the heavy wood.

“Is it your will that I freeze to death here on your steps?” he asked Novron. “I certainly should not think it would look good to have the body of your servant found here. People might get the wrong idea.”

He heard a latch slide.

“Thank you, my lord, forgive my impatience. I am but a man.”

“Monsignor Merton!” Bishop DeLunden exclaimed as he held up a lantern and peered out. “What are you doing out so late on a night like this?”

“God’s will.”

“Of course, but certainly our lord could wait until morning. That’s why he makes new ones every day.” DeLunden was more the curator of the church than its bishop these days, now that the Patriarch had taken up residence. He was like the captain of a ship that ferried an admiral.

Bishop DeLunden had unusually dark skin even for a Calian, which made his wreath of short white hair stand out against his balding head, the top of which looked like a dark olive set in cream. The bishop had a habit of wandering the halls at night like a ghost. Exactly what he did on his walks about the cathedral Merton had no idea, but tonight he was more than thankful for his nocturnal habits. “And it wasn’t
Novron who sent you out on such a night; it was Patriarch Nilnev.” He pulled the great door closed and slid the bolt. “Back from the palace again, are you?”

“These are troubled times and he needs to keep informed. Besides, if not for my wanderings, who would praise the beauty of our lord’s nights?”

“Those farther south, I imagine,” DeLunden retorted gruffly. “Put your hands on the lantern. Warm them lest they fall off.”

“Such compassion,” Merton said. “And for the likes of an Ervanonite like me.”

“Not all Ervanonites are bad.”

“There’s only four of us.”

“Yes, and of the four I can say that you are a good, devout, and gentle man.”

“And the others?”

“I don’t speak of them at all. I still find it altogether strange that only he and his guards managed to escape the desolation of Ervanon while all others perished.”

“I am here.”

“Novron loves you. Our lord pointed you out on the day of your birth and told his father to watch over you.”

“You are too kind, and surely Novron loves everyone, and the leader of his church most of all.”

“But the Patriarch is not—not anymore.” The bishop peered from the vestibule toward the interior. “I don’t like how he treats you.”

Since the Patriarch had arrived, Bishop DeLunden had been very vocal about how the Patriarch treated everyone and, more importantly,
his
cathedral. It was a matter of jealousy, but Merton would never say anything. If Novron wished the bishop to learn this lesson, he would find a worthier vessel than him to explain.

“I also don’t like how he holds court in the holy chancel, as
if he were Novron himself. The altar deserves more respect. Only the empress should occupy that space, only the blood of Novron, but he sits there as if
he
is the emperor.”

“Is he there now?”

“Of course he is—him and his guards. Why does he need guards, anyway? I don’t have guards and I meet dozens of people every day. He meets no one but is never separated from them—and what strange men. They speak only to him, and always in whispers. Why is that? He unnerves me. I am glad I never met the man when I was a deacon, or I should never have devoted my life to Novron.”

“And that would have been a terrible loss to us all,” Merton assured him. “Now if you do not mind, I must speak with the Patriarch.”

“Patriarch! That’s another thing. The man has a name—he was born with a name, just like the rest of us—but no one ever uses it. We refer to our lords as Novron and Maribor, but Nilnev of Ervanon must be referred to as
the Patriarch
, out of respect for his office as head of the church, but as I said, he’s not the head anymore. Novron’s child has returned to us, but still he sits there. Still he rules. I don’t like it—I don’t like it one bit, and I don’t think the empress approves either. If she doesn’t, we can be assured our lord Novron isn’t too pleased.”

“Would you like me to speak to him about your concerns?”

DeLunden scowled. “Oh, he knows. Believe me, he knows.”

Merton left the bishop in the narthex and entered the nave. He stopped briefly, looking down the long cavernous room with its magnificent arched ceiling, shaped like a great ship’s keel—the word
nave
, Merton had learned, was derived from the ancient term
navis
, meaning
ship
. Towering rows of ribbed pillars, like bunches of reeds bound together, rose hundreds of feet, spilling out at the tops, which spread to form the vaulted ceiling. To either side, lower aisles flanked the nave, encased in
the arcades—the series of repeating archways and columns. Above them, the clerestory, or second story, was pierced by tall quatrefoil windows, which normally flooded the floor with light. Tonight they remained black and oily as they reflected the fire of the candles. The same was true of the great rose window at the far end of the cathedral, which appeared as one giant eye. Merton often thought of it as the eye of god watching them, but just as the clerestory lights were dark, so too the great eye remained shut.

Reaching the altar, Merton found alabaster statues of Maribor and Novron. Novron, depicted as a strong handsome man in the prime of his youth, was kneeling, sword in hand. The god Maribor, sculpted as a powerful, larger-than-life figure with a long beard and flowing robes, loomed over Novron, placing a crown on the young man’s head. The statues were the same in every church and chapel; only the materials differed, depending on the means of the parishioners.

“Come forward, Monsignor,” he heard the Patriarch say. His voice carried in echoes from the altar. The cathedral was so large that from where he stood, those in the chancel appeared tiny, dwarfed by distance and made small by the height of the ceiling and the breadth of the walls.

Merton walked the long pathway, listening to the sounds of his shoes against the stone floor.

Just as DeLunden had described, the Patriarch sat at the altar on a chair, his gold and purple robes draped to the floor. Rumors circulated it was the same chair he had used in Ervanon, which he had ordered brought with him at great effort. Merton had never interviewed with His Holiness while in Ervanon, so he could not say if that rumor was true. Few could—His Holiness had rarely seen anyone in his days sequestered in the Crown Tower.

He might have been sleeping, the way the old did, regard
less of where they happened to be. To either side of him stood the guards, matching their charge perfectly in color and fashion. DeLunden was right, at least about the guards: they were a peculiar pair. They stood like statues, without expressions, and for a moment he considered how their eyes reminded him of the windows.

Upon reaching the Patriarch, Merton knelt and kissed his ring, then stood once more. The Patriarch nodded. The guards did not move—not even to blink.

“You have news,” Nilnev prompted.

“I do, Your Holiness. I have just come from a meeting with Her Eminence and her staff.”

“So tell me, what is the empress doing to protect us?”

“She has done a great deal. Supplies have been stored to last the city an estimated two years with proper rationing, which she has already instituted. In addition, the grounds of Highcourt Fields will be opened to farmers come spring. This and other areas of the city will produce grain and vegetables from stored seed. Already manure is being delivered as fertilizer. Fish are being netted around the clock and salt houses are preserving the cod in bulk. A saltworks has been built near the docks to provide pans for raking. These measures could very well provide the city and its people with food for years—indefinitely, perhaps, should the fishing fleet be free to farm the sea.

“All stores are being kept underground in bunkers being dug by the populace in the event of attacks from the sky similar to what was seen at Dahlgren. In most instances, this is merely an expansion or adaptation of an existing dungeon. A series of tunnels have already been built that allow access to freshwater. The wastes from latrines are being channeled through newly built sewers. Given the frozen ground, progress is slow, but it is believed that adequate space is already
available to save the population—although it will be most uncomfortable. Plans to continue the expansion underground could take two or three more months. The empress actually feels that having it uncompleted is beneficial, as it gives the people something to do.”

“So she plans to become a city of moles, hiding in the dirt?”

“Well, yes and no, Your Holiness. She has also strengthened the defenses of the city. A series of catapults are in various states of construction around the outer walls, and soldiers are being drilled by officers appointed by Marshal Breckton. He has devised a number of redundant procedures for every contingency, allowing a means of giving commands in the form of horns, drums, and flags to be flown from the high towers. Archers have stockpiled thousands of arrows and any able-bodied citizen not already employed is working to gather wood for more. Even children are scouring the forest floors. Oil and tar vats are prepared and in ample supply at all gates.