Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (56 page)

“Signal fires were placed to burn the moment the elves were spotted. One was lit and the empress has ordered all of the roads leading to the city to be destroyed, save the southern gate. All bridges and dams are to be broken in order to prevent—”

“Destroyed?” the Patriarch interrupted. “When did she give this order?”

“Just last night.”

“Last night?” The Patriarch looked concerned. “Is there anything else?”

“The empress asked me to inquire what precautions you will be taking.”

“That is none of her business,” he replied.

Merton was shocked. “Begging your pardon, Your Holiness, but she is the empress as well as the head of the church.
How is it not her business to know what efforts you have taken to secure her flock?”

The Patriarch glared at him for a moment, then softened his expression. “You are a good and devout member of the church, Merton of Ghent, and as our lord has seen fit to make you my liaison to the empress, I think perhaps it is time you were made aware of certain truths.”

“Your Holiness?”

“Empress Modina is not the head of this church,” the Patriarch declared simply.

“But she’s the Heir of Novron—”

“That’s exactly the problem—she is not.” The Patriarch licked his nonexistent lips and continued. “Bishop Saldur and Archbishop Galien overstepped their mandate while in Dahlgren. They took it upon themselves to declare the girl the anointed heir. It was a well-intentioned mistake. They were too impatient to wait for Novron to show the way, so they sought to artificially create a new empire. They picked this girl at random, using the unexpected incidents on the Nidwalden to serve as proof. What happened there, however, was proof of nothing. It’s a fabrication that a Gilarabrywn can only be slain by the blood of Novron. They used the ignorance of the masses to build this false empire.”

“Why didn’t you stop it?”

“What could I do? Did you think I
chose
to live my life in seclusion?”

Merton looked at the Patriarch for a moment, confused; then the revelation dawned on him. “You were a prisoner?”

“Why else would I be locked away at the top of the Crown Tower all these years, never seeing anyone?”

“These guards?”

“The only two souls I know to be truly loyal to me. They tried to free me once. They spoke out and Galien had their
tongues sliced off. Only now, with Saldur and the others dead, and Ervanon destroyed, am I able to speak freely.”

“I can hardly believe it,” the monsignor said. “The archbishop, and Saldur as well? But they both seemed so kindly.”

“You have no idea of their ruthlessness. Now, as a result of their actions, a false god sits on the throne of our lord and our fate is in peril.”

“But you can do something about it now, can’t you?”

“What can I do? You’ve heard the mutterings of even old Bishop DeLunden. Imagine what the world would think if I tried to tell the truth. I would be labeled a jealous old man, clinging to lost power. No one would believe me. The empress would see me murdered, just as she eliminated Ethelred and Saldur when they stood in her way. No, I cannot act openly—not yet.”

“What do you intend to do, then?”

“There is a greater issue at stake. We do not face just the extinction of the empire, but of mankind. Modina and her actions will doom all of us.”

“Her preparations to defend the city certainly appear to—”

“Her efforts are useless, but that is not of which I speak.”

“You’re referring to the mission to Percepliquis?”

“Yes! It’s by this that she imperils all.”

“But you were at the meeting. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because that mission
is
necessary. It’s imperative that the horn be found. The danger lies in
who
finds it. That horn is a weapon of incredible power. What Modina does not know—what even Saldur and Ethelred did not know—is that they have been fooled into searching for it. The enemy needs to lay hands on it as much as we do. Whoever wields it controls all. It’s
he
who they obey. They have always been his pawn. For centuries, he has planned this, his hand guiding every move,
hidden in the shadows, manipulating forces unseen. They think he is gone, that he is dead, but he is not. He is clever and crafty, his magic is beyond imagining, and he seeks revenge. A millennium of preparation comes down to this moment and it is he who desires the horn and with it will make all of mankind bow to him. Even the elves will pay for crimes committed a thousand years ago. They will hand the horn to him, for they do not see the danger traveling with them.

“Right now, in the depths of this world, ten individuals are delving into the past and discovering what never should be known, and with that knowledge the world will be undone, unless…”

Merton waited, and when the Patriarch said nothing more, he asked, “Unless what?”

The old man, with his barren brows and bluish hair, looked back as if pulled from a terrible nightmare. “I did what I could. I managed to strike a deal with a member of the empress’s team. At the right moment, my agent will betray them.”

“Who?”

“I will not say. You are a good servant of Novron, but I cannot take a chance of revealing his identity even to you—not with so much at stake.”

“Can you at least tell me who this evil one is? Who can span the course of a thousand years to bring this about?”

“Think hard, Monsignor, and you will know, but for now pray—pray to Novron that my agent will succeed in his charge.”

“I will, Your Holiness. I will.”

“Good, and pack your bags lightly.”

“Am I going somewhere?”

“We both are.”

R
oyce heard whispering.

He estimated it was an hour before dawn. Although he wasn’t certain, it would surprise him if he was very far off. Royce had experience keeping track of time underground. He had developed a surprisingly accurate method during his incarceration in Manzant. During those days, tracking minutes had focused his mind, keeping it off other, more painful thoughts. This was the first time in many years he had allowed himself to remember those days. He had carefully locked them away, packaged them into a back corner of his mind with a dark blanket laid over top, just in case he accidentally looked that way. Only now did he welcome the memories. The pain they caused worked much the same way as keeping track of time had in Manzant, much the same as biting a finger, or squeezing his fist until the fingernails dug half-moons into his palm. They distracted him from thoughts of loss far more fresh—far more crippling.

More than a decade had passed since the First Officer of the Black Diamond had betrayed him, since he had tragically killed Jade and as a result was sent to Manzant Prison by his best friend. Manzant was a dwarven-constructed prison and salt mine. He could still remember the dark rock with streaks
of white and fossils of shellfish. The walls were shored up with timber. Dwarves never used wood. Men added that years later as they carved deeper, hauling the chunks of rock salt out to the elevator in baskets. It was easy to tell the man-made sections from the dwarven by the height of the ceiling. Those being punished worked in the dwarven tunnels, and Royce often found himself there.

He recalled the constant clink of pick on stone and the heat of the fires boiling the brine out of underwater lakes. Huge pans, bubbling and hissing, filled the stale air with steam. If he closed his eyes, he could see the line of bucket men and the walkers chained by their necks to the huge wheel powering the pump. He could also see men driven to exhaustion until they collapsed into the furnace pit.

Water was plentiful, so it was available to those who worked, but Ambrose Moor, the owner of the prison mine, did not waste his profits on food. They were lucky to receive a single small meal a day, usually the spoiled remnants of what a crew of indentured sailors refused to eat. This was just one of many deals Ambrose arranged to minimize operation costs. Royce would fall asleep to dreams of killing Ambrose and the thoughts lingered throughout the day. In the two and a half years he spent in Manzant, he killed Ambrose five hundred and thirty-seven times—no two alike. He killed many people in Manzant and not all of them were imaginary. He never thought of them as people. They were all animals, monsters. Whatever humanity a man had possessed going in was leached out by the salt, pain, and despair. They all fought for rotten food, a place to sleep, a cup of water. He learned how to sleep light and how to appear like he was sleeping when he was not.

Never seeing daylight, never breathing fresh air, and being worked to exhaustion each day, and beaten for mere recreation, had killed many and driven others insane. For Royce, Manzant
was only part of his prison, the latest incarnation. The real walls he had been building up brick by brick for years. Escaping Manzant was impossible, but it was ultimately easier than escaping the prison of his own making.

Nim had started him on the path, and later Arcadius and Hadrian had guided his way, but it was Gwen who had finally unlocked the cell door. She shoved it open and stood just outside calling, assuring him it was safe. He could smell the fresh air and see the brilliance of the sun. He was almost through, almost out—almost.

The whispering came from near the pool.

He thought everyone was asleep. They had traveled a long distance that day over hard terrain. No one had called for him to stop, but he had seen them stumbling—all except the dwarf. The little rat never seemed to tire but continued to scurry, and more than once, Royce had spotted a little smile behind the mustache and remains of his beard.

He had almost killed Magnus that first night they had spent at The Laughing Gnome. The thought had danced teasingly on his mind. That was before Myron came back from dinner and got all chatty. Royce would not admit it to anyone, but the dwarf was useful, and on surprisingly good behavior—which showed even more good sense. More than that, he discovered he no longer had the desire. Like everything else, the dwarf’s crime had been made trivial by Gwen’s death. Both love and hate were banished from him. He was a desert, dry of all passion. Mostly he was tired. He had one last job to do and he would do it, not for the empire, not even for Hadrian—this was for Gwen.

He got to his feet silently, out of curiosity more than concern. The whispering was definitely coming from the party—not some intruder. He spotted the princess lying on her side, wrapped in twisted blankets. She was jerking and thrashing again, that creepy robe glowing different colors, fading out
and lighting up. He had no idea if the robe was causing her to dream so violently or if her dreams sparked the robe’s response. He did not see how it was any of his business and moved on.

At first, he thought it might be Magnus and Gaunt whispering. He frequently spied them traveling together and talking when the rest were too far to hear. Drawing closer, he discovered the source—it was Elden. He could see the huge reclined form up on one elbow under the blanket. His conspirator was on the far side and blocked from view. Wyatt lay a short distance away. He too was awake and watching.

“What’s going on?” Royce whispered to the sailor. “Who’s Elden talking to?”

“The monk.”

“Myron?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Is it normal for him to talk to strangers like that?”

Wyatt looked at him. “He’s talked more to that little monk in the last three days than he has to me in the last decade. They were doing this last night too, and I swear I heard Elden crying. I once watched while a ship’s surgeon put a red-hot poker to a wound on his thigh. Elden didn’t make a sound, but last night that little monk had him weeping so bad his eyes were red the next morning.”

Royce said nothing.

“Funny thing, though, he was smiling. All day long, I saw Elden grinning from ear to ear. That’s just not like him.”

“Best get back to sleep,” Royce told him. “I’ll be waking everyone in another hour.”

Royce stopped again.

Hadrian could see him over the heads of the others from
his position at the rear. This time, Royce knelt down, placed the lantern on the ground beside him, and scraped the dirt. Alric approached and stood slightly to one side.

The party spent most of that day, like the one before, traveling in a single column in the narrow corridor. Overhead, water dripped, soaking their heads and shoulders; likewise, their feet felt pickled from wading through ankle-deep pools.

“What is it this time?” he heard Degan mutter with disdain. “He’s stopping every twenty feet now. This is the problem with monarchies and the whole feudal system, for that matter. Alric is in charge by no other virtue than his birth, and the man is clearly incompetent. He lost his own kingdom twice over in a single year, and now he is in charge of us? We should have a leader who is elected on merit, not lineage. Someone who is the most talented, the most gifted, but no—we have Alric. And the king in all his minuscule wisdom has chosen Royce to guide us. If I were in charge, I would put Magnus out front. He’s obviously far more gifted. He’s constantly correcting Royce’s mistakes. We would be making twice the time we are now. I’ve observed that people respect you.”

Hadrian noticed Gaunt was looking at him. Up until that moment, he had not known who Gaunt was speaking to.

“No one says it, no one bows or anything, but you are highly regarded, I can tell—more than Alric, that’s for certain. If you were to support me, I think we could persuade the others to accept my command of this group. I know Magnus would.”

“Why you?” Hadrian asked.

“Huh?”

“Why should you be in charge?”

“Oh—well, for one thing I am the descendant of Novron and will be emperor. And second, I am smarter than that oaf Alric, by far.”

“I thought you said you wanted a system based on merit, not lineage.”

“I did, but like I said, I am far better suited to the task than he is. Besides, why else am I here if not to lead?”

“Alric has led men into battle, and when I say
led
, I mean it. He personally charged the gates of Medford under a hail of arrows ahead of everyone, even his bodyguards.”

“Exactly, the man is a fool.”

“All right, it might not have been the smartest choice, but it did show courage and an unwillingness to sit back in safety while sending others into peril. That right there gives him credit in my book. But okay, I see your point. He might not be the smartest leader. So if you want someone with brains and merit, then Princess Arista is your clear choice.”

Degan chuckled, apparently taking his comments as a joke. When he saw Hadrian’s scowl, he stopped. “You’re not serious? She’s a woman—an irritating, manipulative, bossy woman. She shouldn’t even be on this trip. She’s got Alric wrapped around her finger and it will get us all killed. Did you know she tried to free me from that dungeon all by herself? She failed miserably, got herself captured and her bodyguard killed. That’s what she does, you know. She gets people killed. She’s a menace. And on top of that she’s also a wit—”

Degan struck the wall with the back of his head, bounced off, and fell to his knees. Hadrian felt the pain in his knuckles and only then realized he had hit him.

Gaunt glared up, his eyes watering, his hands cupping his face. “Crazy fool! Are you mad?”

“What’s going on?” Arista called back down the line.

“This idiot just punched me in the face! My nose is bleeding!”

“
Hadrian
did?” the princess said, stunned.

“It was… an accident,” Hadrian replied, knowing it sounded
feeble, but not knowing how else to describe his actions. He had not meant to hit Gaunt; it had just happened.

“You
accidentally
punched him?” Wyatt asked, suppressing a chuckle. “I’m not sure you have a full understanding of the whole bodyguard thing.”

“Hadrian!” Royce called.

“What?” he shouted back, irritated that even Royce was going to join in this embarrassing moment.

“Come up here. I need you to look at something.”

Degan was still on his knees in a pool of water. “Um—sorry ’bout that.”

“Get away from me!”

Hadrian moved up the line as Wyatt, Elden, and Myron pressed themselves against the walls to let him pass, each one looking at him curiously.

“What did he do?” Arista whispered as he reached her.

“Nothing, really.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You punched him for no reason?”

“Well, no, but—it’s complicated. I’m not even sure I understand it. It was sort of like a reflex, I guess.”

“A… reflex?” she said.

“I told him I was sorry.”

“Anytime today would be nice,” Royce said.

Arista stepped aside, looking at him suspiciously as he passed.

“What was all that about?” Alric asked as he approached.

“I, ah—I punched Gaunt in the face.”

“Good for you,” Alric told him.

“About time someone did,” Mauvin said. “I’m just sorry you beat me to it.”