Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (66 page)

“Here?” Gaunt asked. “The smell is awful, charcoal and something else… What is that disgusting—” Gaunt asked.

“We found a body,” Hadrian told them. “Another member of the last team the Patriarch sent in, from the same group as Bernie, from the
Harbinger
… and a friend. We took his remains out.”

“Was he burned?” Myron asked fearfully.

“No.” Hadrian placed a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think anyone was here when it caught fire.”

“But it was burned recently,” the monk said. “It wouldn’t still smell like this after a thousand years.”

“Perhaps our resident sorceress can do something about the stench?” Gaunt asked.

This brought stern looks from Hadrian, Alric, and Mauvin.

“What?” Degan asked. “Are we to continue to tiptoe around it? She is a magician, a mage, a wizardess, a sorceress, a witch—pick whatever term you prefer. Beat me senseless if you like, but after our little boat ride, there is no debating the reality of that fact.”

Alric strode toward Gaunt with a threatening look and a hand on his sword.

“No.” Arista stopped him. “He’s right. There’s no sense hiding it or pretending. I suppose I am a—Did you say
wizardess
? That one’s not too bad.” As she said this, her robe glowed once more and a mystical white light filled the chamber with a wonderful brilliance, as if the moon had risen in their midst. “That’s fine—best that it is out in the open, best that we can all say it. Royce is an elf, Hadrian a Teshlor, Mauvin a count and a Tek’chin swordsman, Alric a king, Myron a monk with an indelible mind, Magnus a dwarven trap smith, Degan the Heir of Novron, and I—I am a wizardess. But if you call me a witch again, I promise you’ll finish this journey as a frog in my pocket. Are we clear?”

Gaunt nodded.

“Good. Now, I am exhausted, so you will have to live with the smell.”

With that, Arista threw herself down, wrapped up in her blankets, and closed her eyes. As she did, the robe dimmed and faded until at last it was dark. The rest of them followed her lead. Some swallowed a handful of food or a mouthful of water before collapsing but no one spoke. Hadrian tore open another packaged meal, surprised at how few he had left. They had better find the horn soon or they might all end up like Bulard.

What happened to him?

It was the question he drifted to sleep on.

Hadrian felt a nudge and opened his eyes to Mauvin’s face and wild hair hanging over him.

“Royce told me to wake you. It’s your watch.”

Hadrian sat up groggily. “How long and who do I wake?”

“You’re last.”

“Last? But I just fell asleep.”

“You’ve been snoring for hours. Give me the chance to get a little sleep.”

Hadrian wiped his eyes, wondering how he could best estimate the length of an hour, and shivered. He always felt chilled when he woke up, before his blood got running properly. The cool subterranean air did nothing to help. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and stood up.

The party all lay together like blanket-shrouded corpses, bundles of dark lumps on the floor. Each had swept the broken glass back and it clustered in a ring marking the border of their camp. The lantern was still burning, and off to one side, near where he had found Bulard’s body, huddled in a ball and wrapped in his hooded frock and blanket, sat Myron.

“Tell me you did not stay up reading,” he whispered, sitting down next to him among the piles of papers and books, which Myron had neatly stacked.

“Oh no,” he replied. “I was beside Mauvin when Alric woke him for his watch. I just couldn’t get back to sleep, not in here. These papers,” he said, picking up a handful. “They were written by Antun Bulard, a famous historian. I found them scattered. He was here. I think he is the one who died.”

“He used to say he couldn’t remember anything unless he wrote it down.”

“Antun Bulard?” Myron looked astonished. “You’ve met him!”

“I traveled briefly with him in Calis. A nice old man and a lot like you in many ways.”

“He wrote the
The History of Apeladorn
, an incredible work. It was the book I was scribing the night you found me at the Winds Abbey.” Myron lifted the parchments, holding them up to Hadrian. “His legs were broken. They left him here with some food and water and the lantern for light. His notes are sloppy, lines running over one another. I think he
wrote them in the dark to save oil for reading, but I can read most of it. He was with three others, a Dr. Levy, Bernie—who we laid to rest—and Sentinel Thranic, who I gather was their leader. Antun wasn’t very pleased with him. There was also a man named Staul, but he died before they set sail.”

“Yes, we knew them too. What happened?”

“Apparently, they acquired the
Harbinger
from a warlord of some sort called Er An Dabon. He also arranged for a Ghazel guide to take them into the city. All went well, if not a bit tense, until they arrived at this library. Here they found evidence that this had been the last stand for a previous team and he mentioned the names Sir Gravin Dent, Rentinual, Math, and Bowls.”

“So it
was
them.”

“They apparently barricaded themselves inside, but the doors were forced open. Bulard’s group found their gear, bloodstains, and lots of Ghazel arrows—but no bodies.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“Antun suggested they leave him to sit and read while they went on to explore for the horn.”

“So the library—”

“It was fine—
perfect
, to use the words of Antun Bulard—filled with thousands and thousands of books. Bulard wrote, ‘There is perhaps a hundred tomes on birds—just birds—and above those, another hundred on the imperial seafaring mercantile industries. I followed an aisle back to a swirling brass stair that corkscrewed up to yet another floor, like an attic, and it was filled to the ceiling with records of the city—births, deaths, land titles, and transfers—amazing!’ ”

“What happened?”

“Thranic burned it,” Myron said. “They had to hold Antun down. After that, he refused to go any farther. Thranic broke both his legs to prevent him from escaping the city and left him here, just in case they had a question he needed to answer.

“Antun salvaged these from the ash.” He pointed to the small stack of five books. “He lived for nearly three months. In the end, with the oil gone, he was trying to feel the words on the page with his fingertips.”

“Nothing about what happened to the others?”

“No, but he appeared to realize something of tremendous importance. He began writing about it in earnest, but it must have been after the oil ran out and I suspect starvation was taking its toll. His quill work was abysmal. He wrote something about a betrayal, a murder, and something he referred to as the Great Lie, but the only thing he wrote clearly was the phrase
Mawyndulë of the Miralyith
, which was underlined twice. The rest is indecipherable, although it goes on for ten more pages and there are many exclamation points. Only the last line is fully readable. It says, ‘Such a fool was I, such fools are we all.’ ”

“Any idea what this Maw-drool-eh of the Mirrorleaf
is
?”

“Maw-in-due-lay and Meer-ah-leeth,” he corrected. “The Miralyith is, or was, one of the seven tribes of elves.”

“Seven tribes?”

“Yes, actually Bulard wrote of them in his first book years ago. There were seven tribes of elves named from the ancestors that founded them. The Asendwayr, known as the hunters; the Gwydry, the farmers; the Eilywin, the builders; the Miralyith, the mages; the Instarya, the warriors; the Nilyndd, the crafters; and the Umalyn, the priests of Ferrol. Everyone knows that Ferrol created the elves first and for thousands of years only they and the creations of Muriel existed on the face of Elan. Bulard discovered that there was friction from the beginning. Elves once fought elves, clan against clan. A feud existed between the Instarya and the Miralyith to where—”

Arista quivered in her sleep and let out a muffled cry.

“She’s been like that all night,” Myron told him.

Hadrian nodded. “She told me she’s been suffering from
nightmares, but I think they are more than dreams.” Hadrian watched her. As he did, he felt Myron’s hand on his. Looking up, he saw the monk offer him a sad smile.

Hadrian drew his hand away. “I think I’d better start waking people.”

Myron nodded as if he understood more than Hadrian had meant to say.

M
ince was convinced that the vast majority of his ten long years—soon to be eleven—had been spent with frozen feet. Even the empress’s gifts of thick wool cloaks, hats, mittens, boots, and scarves were incapable of withstanding the biting winds. His fingers kept going numb, and he had to make fists to keep the blood flowing.

This must be the coldest winter the world has ever seen. If the water in my eyes freezes, will I be unable to blink?

Mince stood with a bucket in hand and stomped on the river with his frozen feet—solid as stone. He heard no cracking, nor the gurgle of liquid lapping beneath the surface. There would be no water again, which meant another miserable day warming cups of snow under their tunics. Hadrian had ordered them not to build a fire and Renwick was adamant about obeying. The task was unpleasant, but they could make do. Mince was not sure how much longer the horses could go without.

Lack of water was not the horses’ only problem. Even though the boys had tethered them in a tight pack, and built a windbreak from pine boughs and thickets, the animals were still suffering from the cold. Ice formed on their backs, icicles
hung from their noses, and that morning Mince had seen two of them lying down. One was producing a small puff of white mist at frighteningly long intervals. The other did not appear to breathe at all. The ones lying down were the horses on the outside of the pack—the ones exposed to the most wind.

The Big Freeze, as Kine had named it, had occurred three days earlier and come upon them overnight. The previous day they had run around in warm sunshine, playing tag without scarves or hats; then the sky had turned gray and a frigid air blew in. That morning Elbright had returned from fetching the water reporting that only a narrow stream ran down the center of the river. The day after, the river was gone completely—replaced by a smooth expanse of white. That afternoon when the snow started to fall, the flakes were no larger than grains of sand.

The five boys had been living in a snow cave beneath the eaves of a holly tree, and when the freeze came, they dug their shelter deeper and built a windbreak by covering the opening with lashed pine boughs.

Time passed slowly after the Big Freeze. With the temperature so bitter, they no longer went out except to relieve themselves. The only fun they had had was when Brand discovered the
trick
. He got up miserable, shivering, and cursing, and in a fit of frustration, he spit. It was so cold that the liquid cracked in the air. They spent the next few hours trying to see who could get the loudest snap. Kine was the best, but he had always been the best spitter. As fun as cracking spit was, it pushed away the boredom only temporarily and they tired of the game. As the cold wind blew, and the temperature continued to drop, Mince could not help wondering how long they would have to stay.

He should have headed back to the Hovel, what they began calling their snow cave, but instead scanned the length of the
broad white trail that ran north and south like a shining crystal road. Mince was trying to see if some portion was clear. Perhaps there was a place where the current prevented the ice from forming. He looked for a change in color, but there was nothing but a never-ending expanse of white. Still, something caught his eye. Far to the north he saw movement.

A long gray line crossed the river. There were people, tall and slender, wearing identical cloaks. He stared, amazed at the sight, and wondered if perhaps they were ghosts, for in the stillness of the winter’s morning he heard no sound of their passing. Mince stood staring but it was not until he saw a glint of armor that it occurred to him what he was actually seeing. The revelation froze him as instantly as if he were spit turning solid in the morning air.

Elves!

As he watched the spectral cavalcade, they marched three abreast in the muted light, passing like phantoms on the ridge. They rode on steeds that even at a distance Mince could tell surpassed any breed raised by men. With broad chests, tall ears, proud arched necks, and hooves that pranced rather than walked, these animals were ethereal. Their bridles and equestrian gowns were adorned in gold and silk, as if the animals were statelier than the noblest human king. Upon them, each rider wore a golden helm and carried a spear with a streaming silver banner licking the air.

The sound of music reached his ears—a wild, capricious but beautiful euphony that haunted his spirit and caused him to unwillingly take a step forward. Joining the sound was the wonderful lilt of voices. They were light and airy and reminded Mince of flutes and harps speaking to one another. They sang in a language Mince could not understand, but he did not need to. The melody and plaintive beauty of the sound carried him with it. He felt warm and content and took another step
forward. Before long, the music faded, as did the sight of them as they finished crossing the river and disappeared into the foothills.

“Mince!” He heard Elbright and felt hands shaking him. “He’s over here! The little idiot fell asleep on the ice. Wake up, you fool!”

“What’s he doing way up here? I found the bucket a half mile back.” Kine’s voice was more distant and out of breath.

“It’s almost dark. We need to get him back. I’ll carry him. You run ahead and tell Renwick to get a fire started.”

“You know what he’ll say.”

“I don’t care! If we don’t get him warm, he’ll die.”

There were the sounds of feet on snow, sounds of urgency and fear, but Mince did not care. He was warm and safe and still remembered the music lingering in his head, calling to him.

When Kine returned to camp, only Brand was there—Brand the Bold, as he liked to call himself. It was a bold boast for a kid of thirteen, but no one questioned it. Brand had survived a knife fight, and that was more than any of them could claim.

“We need to get a fire started,” Kine said, returning to the Hovel. “We found Mince and he’s near dead with cold.”

“I’ll get kindling,” Brand replied, and ran out into the snow.

Kine got the tinderbox from the supplies they had not touched and cleared a space near the front of the shelter. Brand was back in minutes with a sheet of birch bark, a handful of brown grass, tiny dry twigs, and even a bit of rabbit fur. He dropped the treasures off and set back out. As he did, Kine spotted Elbright carrying Mince on his back. The boy’s head
rolled with each step. It reminded him of how deer looked when hunters brought them in.

Elbright said, “Make a bed, put down lots of needle branches—pile them up—we want to keep him off the snow.”

Kine nodded and ran out of the shelter past the horses—two more were lying down. He entered a grove of spruce trees, where he tore the branches from the trunks, getting his mittens sticky from the sap. He made four trips, and when he finished, Mince had a thick bed to lie on.

Elbright had a small, delicate flame alive on the birch sheet. His mittens were on the snow beside him. His bare fingers were red, and he frequently breathed on them or slapped his thigh as he squatted in the snow. “Fingers go numb in seconds.”

“What are you doing?” Renwick said, coming up the slope from the south.

When Mince had not returned after going for water, they all went searching in different directions. Renwick took the southern riverbank and returned only now that the sky was darkening and the temperature plummeted.

Although he was also an orphan, Renwick was not one of their gang. He lived at the palace, where his father used to be a servant. While really no more than a page, the boy had served as squire to Sir Hadrian during Wintertide. All the boys were impressed by Hadrian’s spectacular success during the games and this admiration spilled over to Renwick. The boy was also older—perhaps a year or two Elbright’s senior. Unlike those of the rest, Renwick’s clothes fit him properly and even matched in color.

“We have to get a fire going,” Elbright told him even as he fed the tongues of flame little sticks. “We found Mince on the ice. He’s freezing to death.”

“We can’t build a fire. Hadrian—”

“Do you want him to die?”

Renwick looked at the growing fire and the tendrils of white smoke snaking from it, then at Mince lying on the spruce bed. Kine could see the debate going on inside him.

“He’s my best friend,” Kine told him. “Please.”

Renwick nodded. “It’s getting dark. The smoke won’t be visible, but we need to contain the light as much as we can. Let’s bank the snow walls higher. Damn, it
is
cold.”

Brand returned with more wood, larger branches and even a few broken logs. His cheeks and nose were red and ice crystals formed around his nose and mouth.

“You need to keep him awake,” Elbright told him as he tended the fire as if it were a living thing. “If he stays asleep, he’ll die.”

Kine shook Mince and even slapped him across the face, but the boy did not seem to notice. Meanwhile, Renwick and Brand boosted the windbreak wall, which not only contained the light, but also reflected the heat. Elbright coaxed the fire, cooing to it like it was a child he had brought into the world. “Com’on, baby, eat that branch. Eat it, that’s right, there you go. Tastes good, doesn’t it? Eat all of it. It will make you strong.”

Elbright’s baby became a full-grown fire and soon the frigid cold fell back. It was the first time in days any of them had known real warmth. Kine’s feet and fingers began to ache and his cheeks and the tip of his nose burned as he thawed out.

Beyond the mouth of their snow cave, darkness fell, made deeper by the bright light of the fire. Renwick grabbed a pot from the supplies, filled it with snow, and set it near the fire to melt. Elbright refused to let him put it on his fire. They sat in silence, listening to the friendly sound of the flames.

Soon the shelter was warm enough that Elbright took off his hat and even his cloak. The rest of them followed his lead, with Kine laying his over Mince.

“Can we eat now?” Brand asked.

Renwick had established a firm rule that they ration their food and they all ate together to make certain no one had more than his share. Like the cups of water, they kept their meals inside their shirts, up against their skin, since it was the only way to keep the food from freezing solid.

“I suppose,” Renwick said passively, but looked just as hungry as any of them.

Brand pulled out his stick of salt pork and set it near the fire. “I’m having a hot meal tonight.”

The rest of them mimicked him, and before long, the smell of hot meat filled the cave. They all waited to see how long Brand could hold out. It was not long and soon everyone was ripping into the pork and making exaggerated smacks of ecstasy.

In the midst of their revelry, Mince sat up.

“Supper?”

“You’re alive!” Kine exclaimed.

“You’re not eating my share, are you?”

“We should!” Elbright yelled at him. “You little idiot. Why did you decide to take a nap on the ice?”

“I fell asleep?” Mince asked, surprised.

“You don’t remember?” Kine asked. “We found you curled up on the river, snoring.”

“You should thank Maribor for your life,” Elbright added. “And what were you doing so far north?”

“I was watching the elves.”

“Elves?” Renwick asked. “What elves?”

“I saw the elven army crossing the river, a whole line of them.”