Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (74 page)

“Empress!” Russell stated. “Oh, you’re your father’s daughter, all right. Stubborn as a mule and strong as an ox! The elves are foolish to even think about crossing paths with one of the Woods of Dahlgren.”

“Welcome to
my
house,” she said, and hugged him.

“Dillon McDern had come here with us during Wintertide just a few months ago. We watched Hadrian joust,” Russell told her.

She had brought them back to her bedroom, where she sat on the bed with Lena while Russell—who was never one to sit while telling a story—stood before her. Tad was at the window, admiring the view.

“It was a great day,” he went on, but there was regret in his voice. “We tried to see you, but they turned us away at the gate, a’course. Who’s gonna let the likes of us in to see the empress? So we went back to Alburn.

“After Dahlgren, Vince found us all plots on Lord Kimble’s land. We was grateful to get it at the time but it turned out not to be such a good idea. Kimble took most of the yield and charged us for seed and tools. He took Dillon’s sons for his army and they was both killed. When he came to take Tad here, well, I didn’t see no reason to stay for that.

“Dillon and I were drinking one night and he told me, he says, ‘Rus, if I had it to do over again, I’d a run.’ I knew what he was getting at, and we said goodbye to each other like tomorrow would never come. We packed that night and we ran out. Thing is we was only running ’cause we didn’t want
Tad to be pressed into Kimble’s army. We got as far as Stockton Bridge when we heard the elves had invaded Alburn. We heard they torched the place. Dillon, Vince, even Lord Kimble are all dead now, I suppose. We come here ’cause we didn’t know where else to go. We hoped, but we never expected to see you.”

The door to the bedroom burst open and the girls and Mr. Rings came bounding in, all three halting short when they saw the Bothwicks. They stood still and silent. Modina held out an inviting arm and the girls shifted uneasily toward her, the raccoon climbing to the safety of Mercy’s shoulder.

“This is Mercy and Allie,” Modina told them.

Lena smiled at the two curiously, then stared at Allie’s pointed ears. “Is she—”

Modina cut her off. “They’re as dear to me as daughters. Allie’s father is on a very important mission and I promised I would watch over her until his return. Mercy is—” She hesitated briefly. She had never said it in the girl’s presence before. “She is an orphan, from the north, and one of the first to see the elves attack.”

“Speaking of elves…” Russell continued where his wife had left off.

“Yes, Allie is of elvish descent. Her father saved her from a slave ship bound for Calis.”

“And you’ve got no problem with that?” Russell asked.

“Why would I? Allie is a sweet little girl. We’ve grown quite fond of each other. Haven’t we?” Modina brushed a loose strand of hair behind a pointed ear.

The girl nodded and smiled.

“Her father may have to fight me for her when he gets back.” Modina smiled at them both. “And where have you two mischief-makers been?”

“In the kitchen, playing with Red.”

Modina raised an eyebrow. “With Mr. Rings?”

“They get along fine,” Mercy said. “Although…”

“What?”

Mercy hesitated to speak, so Allie stepped forward. “Mercy is trying to get Red to let Mr. Rings ride on his back. It’s not going so well. Mr. Thinly chased us out after Red knocked over a stack of pans.”

Modina rolled her eyes. “You are a pair of monsters, aren’t you?”

Lena began to cry and put her arms around Russell, who held her.

“What?” Modina asked, going to Lena.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Russell spoke for her. “The girls—you know—she misses the twins. We almost lost Tad too, didn’t we, boy?”

Tad, who was still looking out the window, turned and nodded. He had not said a word, and the Thaddeus Bothwick Modina remembered had never been quiet.

“We survived all those terrible nights in Dahlgren,” Lena said, sobbing. “But living in Alburn killed my little girls and now—and now…”

“You’re going to be all right,” Modina told her. “I’ll see to that.”

Russell looked at her, nodding appraisingly. “Damned if you ain’t your father’s daughter. Theron would be real proud of you, Thrace. Real proud.”

Renwick had no idea what to do. For the third day in a row, he was confused and uncomfortable. He wanted to return to Amberton Lee, but the empress forbade him. The elven army
would be between them now. He tried to resume his castle page duties only to discover he was not wanted, once more due to an edict from the empress. Apparently he had no assigned duties.

He wore a new tunic, far nicer than any he had ever had before. He ate wonderful meals and slept right under Sir Elgar and across from Sir Gilbert of Lyle, in a berth in the knights’ dormitories.

“You’ll get work plenty soon enough, lad,” Elgar told him. He and Sir Gilbert were at the table, engaged in a game of chess that Gilbert was winning easily. “When those elves arrive, you’ll be earning your keep.”

“Hauling buckets of water to the gate for the soldiers,” Renwick said dismally.

“Hauling water?” Elgar questioned. “That’s page work.”

“I am a page.”

“Hah! Is that a page’s bed you sleep in? Is that a page’s tunic? Are you eating page meals? Slopping out the stables? You
were
a page, but the empress has her eye on you now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you are in her favor, and you won’t be hauling no water.”

“But what—”

“Can you handle a blade, boy?” Gilbert asked while sliding a pawn forward and making Elgar shift uneasily in his seat.

“I think so.”

“You
think
so?”

“Sir Malness never let me—”

“Malness? Malness was an idiot,” Elgar growled.

“Probably why he broke his neck falling off his horse,” Gilbert said.

“He was drinking,” Renwick pointed out.

“He was an idiot,” Elgar repeated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gilbert said. “When the fight begins, we’ll need every man who can hold a blade. You might have been a page yesterday, but tomorrow you will be a soldier. And with the eye of the empress on you—fight well, and you may find yourself a knight.”

“Don’t fill his head with too much nonsense,” Elgar said. “He’s not even a squire.”

“I squired for Sir Hadrian.”

“Hadrian isn’t a knight.”

A horn sounded and all three scrambled out of the dormitory and raced past the droves of refugees to the front hall. They pushed out into the courtyard, looking to the guards at the towers.

“What is it?” Elgar called to Benton.

The tower guard heard his voice and turned. “Sir Breckton and the army have returned. The empress has gone to welcome them home.”

“Breckton,” Gilbert said miserably. “Com’on, Elgar, we have a game to finish.”

The two turned their backs on the courtyard and returned inside, but Renwick ran out past the courtyard and through the city toward the southern gate. The portcullis was already up by the time he arrived, and the legion bearing Breckton’s blue-and-gold-checkered standard entered.

Drums sounded, keeping beat with the footfalls of men. As the knight-marshal rode at the head of his army, the sun shone off his brilliant armor. At his side rode the lady Amilia, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak, which draped across the side and back of her mount. Renwick recognized other faces: King Armand, Queen Adeline, Prince Rudolf and his younger brother Hector, along with Leo, Duke of Rochelle, and his wife,
Genevieve, who composed the last of the Alburn nobility. With their arrival it was official—the eastern provinces were lost. Sir Murthas, Sir Brent, Sir Andiers, and several others he knew from the rosters formed ranks in the armored cavalry. Behind them, neat rows of foot soldiers marched. These were followed by wagons of supplies and people—more refugees.

Modina ran to embrace Amilia the moment she climbed off her horse. “You made it!” she said, squeezing her. “And your family?”

“They are on the wagons,” Amilia told her.

“Bring them to the great hall. Are you hungry?”

She nodded, smiling.

“Then I will meet them and we will eat. I have people for you to meet as well. Nimbus!” Modina called.

“Your Eminence.” The chancellor trotted to her side and Amilia hugged the beanpole of a man.

Renwick could not see anymore as the army filled the street. He moved to the wall and climbed steps to the top of the gate, where Captain Everton was once more on duty, watching the progress of the army’s return below him.

“Impressive, isn’t he?” Everton said to him as they watched the column from the battlements. “I for one will sleep easier tonight knowing Sir Breckton is here, and none too soon, I suspect.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t like the sky.”

Renwick looked up. Overhead a dark haze swirled a strange mix of brown and yellow, a sickly soup of dense clouds that churned and folded like the contents of some witch’s brew.

“That doesn’t look natural to me.”

“It’s warmer too,” Renwick said, having just realized that
he was outside without a cloak and not shivering. He breathed out and could not see his breath.

He rushed to the edge of the battlement and looked southeast. In the distance, the clouds were darker still and he noticed an eerie green hue to the sky. “They are coming.”

“Blow the horn,” Everton ordered as the last of the troops and wagons passed through. “Seal the gate.”

R
unning through the corridors, she heard the clash of steel and the cries of men. She had done her duty, her obligations complete. Descending to the tombs, she entered the Vault of Days. The emperor lay on the floor as the last of his knights died on the swords of those loyal to Venlin. A rage boiled in her as she spoke. The room shuddered at the sound of her words and the would-be killers of her emperor—ten Teshlor Knights—screamed as their bodies ripped apart.

She fell to her knees.

“Emperor!” she cried. “I am here!”

Nareion wept as in his arms he clutched the dead bodies of his wife, Amethes, and Fanquila, their daughter.

“We must go,” she urged.

The emperor shook his head. “The horn?”

“I placed it in the tomb.”

“My son?”

“He is with Jerish. They have left the city.”

“Then we will end this here.” Nareion drew his sword. “Enchant it with the weaving-letters.”

She knew what he meant to do. She wanted to tell him not to. She wanted to assure him there was another way, but even
as she shook her head, she placed her hand on the blade and spoke the words, making the blade shimmer and causing letters to appear. They moved and shifted as if uncertain where they should settle.

“Now go, meet him. I will see to it that he never enters the tomb.” The emperor looked down at his dead family and the shimmering sword. “I will make certain no one else will.”

She nodded and stood. Looking back just once at the sad scene of the emperor crying over the loss of his family, she left the Vault of Days. She no longer rushed. Time was unimportant now. The emperor was dead, but Venlin had not killed him. He had missed his chance. Venlin would win the battle but lose the war.

“He is dead, then.” She heard the voice—so familiar. “And you are here to kill me?”

“Yes,” she replied.

She was in the corridor just outside the throne room. He was inside, his voice seeping out.

“And you think you can? Such is the folly of youth. Even old Yolric is not so foolish as to challenge me. And you—you are the youngest of the council, a pup—you dare bring your inexperience and meager knowledge of the Art against me? I am the Art—my family invented it. My brother taught Cenzlyor. The entire council flows from the skills and knowledge of the Miralyith. You have ruined much. I did not suspect you. Jerish was obvious, but you! You wanted power, you always wanted power; all of you did. You hated the Teshlor more than anyone. Above all, I thought I could count on your support.”

“That was before Avempartha, before I discovered who you are—murderer. You will not succeed.”

“I already have. The emperor is dead; I know this. I have just one loose end to tie up. Tell me, where is Nevrik?”

“I will die before telling you that.”

“There are worse things than dying.”

“I know,” she told him. “That’s why I choose death. Death for me, death for you…” She looked down the corridor to where the sunlight was streaming in. She could still hear the parade marching past the cheering crowds. “Death for everyone. It ends here, and Nevrik will return to his throne. It is time to bury the dead at last.”

She looked out at the sun one more time and thought of Elinya. “Maribor take us both,” she said, and closing her eyes, began the weave.

“He did it.”

Arista woke up sweating, her heart pounding.

She lay in a small dark room lit by a single lantern. A thin blanket separated her from the cold floor, another was placed over her, and a bag supported her head. The room was not much bigger than her old bedroom in the tower. It was a perfect square with a vaulted ceiling, the arches forming a star shape as they joined overhead. On either side of the room, two doors faced each other. One opened to the corridor; the other was shut tight and locked from their side. Nooks with brass lattice doors covered the walls, each alcove filled with piles of neatly placed scrolls, round tubes of yellowed parchment. Many of the little grates were open; several scrolls lay spilled on the floor, some of them torn to pieces. In the center of the room was a statue. She recognized it as a version of those she had seen in churches and chapels throughout her life. It was a depiction of Novron, only this one was missing the head. Its remains lay shattered and beaten to powder on the floor.

Hadrian’s was the first face she saw, as he sat beside her. “You’re awake at last,” he said. “I was getting worried.”

Myron was just to her left. He was the closest to the light, sitting in a mound of scrolls. The monk looked up, smiled, and waved.

“You’re all right?” Hadrian asked with concern in his voice.

“Just exhausted.” She wiped her eyes and sighed. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Five hours,” Royce said. She only heard his voice, as he was somewhere just outside the ring of light.

“Five? Really? I feel like I could sleep another ten,” she said, yawning.

Arista noticed in the corner an unpleasant-looking man—pale and withered—like a sickly molting crow. He sat hunched over, watching them, his dark marble eyes glaring.

“Who’s he?”

“Sentinel Thranic,” Hadrian told her. “The last living member of the previous team. I’d introduce you, but we sort of hate each other, seeing as how he shot Royce with a crossbow last fall—nearly killed him.”

“And he’s still alive?” Arista asked.

“Don’t look at me. I haven’t stopped him,” Hadrian told her. “Hungry?”

“I hate to say it, given the circumstances, but I’m famished.”

“We thought you died,” Mauvin told her. “You stopped moving and even stopped breathing for such a long time. Hadrian slapped you a few times, but it did nothing.”

“You hit me again?” She rubbed her cheek, feeling the soreness.

He looked guilty. “I was scared. And it worked last time.”

She noticed the bandage on Mauvin’s arm. “You’re wounded?”

“More embarrassed than anything. But that’s bound to
happen when you’re a Pickering fighting beside Hadrian. Doesn’t really hurt that much, honest.”

“Hmm, let’s see.” She heard Hadrian rummaging around in a pack. “Would you like salt pork… or perhaps… let’s see now… how about salt pork?” he asked with a smile, handing a ration to her. She tore it open with shaking hands.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asked, and she was surprised at the concern in his voice.

“Just weak—like a fever broke, you know?” Hadrian did not indicate whether he knew, but sat watching her as if she might drop over dead any minute. “I’m fine—really.”

Arista took a bite of the meat. The heavily salted and miserably dry pork was a joy to swallow, which she did almost without chewing.

“Alric?” she asked.

“He’s in the corridor,” Hadrian told her.

“You haven’t buried him yet, have you?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good, I would like to take him back to Melengar to be laid in the tomb of his fathers.”

The others looked away, each noticeably silent, and she saw a disturbing grin stretch across Thranic’s face. The sentinel appeared ghoulish in the lantern light; his malevolence chilled her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It doesn’t look like we will be getting back to Melengar,” Hadrian told her.

“The horn isn’t here?”

“Apparently it’s through that door, but we haven’t—”

“Through that door is death,” Thranic told her. He spoke for the first time, his voice a hissing rasp. “Death for all the children of Maribor. The last emperor’s guardian watches the Vault of Days and will not suffer anyone’s passage.”

“Guardian?” she asked.

“A Gilarabrywn,” Hadrian told her. “A big one.”

“Well, of course it’s big, if it’s a Gilarabrywn.”

Hadrian smiled. “You don’t understand. This one is
really
big.”

“Is there a sword? There has to be a sword to slay it, right?”

Hadrian sighed. “Royce says there’s another door on the far side. Maybe it’s over there. We don’t know. Besides, you realize there’s no reason for the sword to be down here at all.”

“We have to look. We have to…”

The sword.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked.

“Is the Gilarabrywn bigger than the one in Avempartha?”

“A lot bigger.”

“It would be,” she said, remembering her dream. “And the sword is there, on the far side of the room.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it… or at least, Esrahaddon did. Emperor Nareion created the Gilarabrywn himself. Esrahaddon enchanted the blade of the king’s sword with the name and Nareion conjured the beast. Only he did it with his own blood. He sacrificed himself in the making, adding power to the Gilarabrywn and assigning it the task of guarding the tombs where Esrahaddon hid the horn.”

The sentinel eyed her curiously. “The Patriarch was not aware of its existence, nor did
we
realize it was there until we opened that door. No spell, no stealth, no army, no wishful thinking will grant anyone access to the room beyond. The quest for the horn ends here.”

“And
someone
sealed the way out,” Gaunt reminded her. He reclined on his pack. His fur-lined houppelande, pulled tight to his chin, was torn and stained. His chaperon hat was a rumpled mess, the folds ripped and pulled down over his ears.
The liripipe was missing altogether and Arista only then realized the same black cloth of Gaunt’s headdress wrapped Mauvin’s arm. “Which means we’re trapped in this room until we die of thirst or starvation. At least this bugger was able to live off goblins. What are we going to do, carve up each other?”

“Don’t be so optimistic, Mr. Sunshine,” Mauvin told him. “You might just get our hopes too high, and then we’ll be disappointed in the end.”

“We have to try something,” she said.

“We will,” Hadrian assured her. “Royce and I don’t give up that easily—you know that—but you should rest more before we do anything. We might need you. By the way, what did you mean by ‘he did it’?”

“What?”

“When you woke up, you said, ‘He did it.’ It sounded important. Another one of your dreams?”

“Oh, that, yeah,” she said, confused for a moment, trying to remember. Already the memory was fogged and blowing away. “It was Esrahaddon, he did this.”

“Did what?”

“All this,” she said, pointing up and whirling her hand around. “He destroyed the city—just like they said he did. You remember what I did at the stairs? Well, he was a bit more powerful. He collapsed the entire city, sunk and buried it.”

“So he wasn’t kidding when he said he was better with hands,” Royce observed.

“And the people?” Mauvin asked.

“They were having a Founder’s Day celebration. The city was packed with people, all the dignitaries, all the knights and Cenzars, and… yes, he killed everyone.”

“Of course he did!” Thranic shouted as best he could. “Did you think the church lied? Esrahaddon destroyed the empire!”