Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (75 page)

“No,” she said. “He tried to save it. It was Patriarch Venlin who betrayed the emperor. He was behind it all. Somehow, he convinced the Teshlor and the Cenzar to join him. He wanted to overthrow the emperor, kill him and wipe out his entire family. I think it was his intention to become the new ruler. But Esrahaddon stopped him. He got the emperor’s son, Nevrik, out, then destroyed the city. I think he was trying to kill everyone associated with the rebellion, literally crushing all the enemies of Nevrik in one stroke. He expected to die along with them.”

“But Esrahaddon survived,” Hadrian said.

“So did Venlin,” she added. “I don’t know how. Maybe Yolric, or no—Venlin may have done something—cast some spell.”

“The Patriarch was a wizard?” Hadrian asked.

She nodded. “A very powerful one, I think. More powerful than Esrahaddon.”

“That’s blasphemy!” Thranic said accusingly, and then fell into a coughing fit that left him exhausted.

“He was so powerful that Esrahaddon never even considered fighting him. He knew he’d lose and Esra was capable of destroying this entire city and nearly everyone in it.”

Arista paused and turned her head back the way they had come. “They were all out there, lining the streets. I think they were having a parade. Each of them singing, cheering, eating sweets, dancing, drinking Trembles, enjoying the spring weather—then it all ended.

“I can still feel the chords Esrahaddon used. The deep chords, like the ones I touched on the ship just before you hit me. I barely touched those strings, but Esrahaddon played them loudly. His heart broke as he did it. A woman he loved lived in the city, a woman he planned to marry. He didn’t have time to get her out.”

“This is larger than your loss! It is larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. Do you think I enjoyed it? Any of it? You forget—I lost my life as well. I had parents of my own, friends, and—”

Arista finally knew the unspoken words from their last meeting in the Ratibor mayoral office. Her hand touched the material of the robe as she remembered the way she had treated him. She had had no idea.

As a wizard, you must understand personal vengeance and gain are barred to you. We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune. A wizard must work for the betterment of all—and sacrifices are always necessary.

She stared at the floor, recalling the memory of the dream and the memories of the past, feeling sadness and loss. Beside her, Hadrian began humming a simple tune and then sang softly the words to the old song:

Gala halted, city’s doom

Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom

Darkness sealed, blankets all

Death upon them, fall the wall.

Ancient stones upon the Lee

Dusts of memories gone we see

Once the center, once the all

Lost forever, fall the wall.

“I grew up believing it was all just nonsense, something kids made up. We used to join hands, forming lines, and sing that while someone tried to pull the others down or break the line. If they did, they could take their place. We had no idea what any of it meant.”

“Lies! All of it, lies!” Thranic shouted at them, straining to
his knees. He was shaking, but Arista couldn’t tell if it was from weakness or rage—perhaps both.

“I don’t think so,” Myron said from within a pile of scrolls.

“You shouldn’t be reading those,” the sentinel snapped. “The church placed a ban on all literature found here. It is forbidden!”

“I can see why,” Myron replied.

“You are defying the Church of Nyphron by even touching them!”

“Luckily, I am not a member of the Church of Nyphron. The Monks of Maribor have no such canon.”

“You’re the one who ripped up these other scrolls,” Hadrian said accusingly.

“They are evil.”

“What was on them? What was so terrible? You were the one that burned the library. What are you trying to hide?” Hadrian thought a moment, then gestured toward the statue. “And what’s with the heads? You did that too. Not just this one, but all throughout the city. Why?”

When Thranic remained silent, Hadrian turned to Myron. “What did you find out?”

“Many things. The most significant is that elves were never enslaved by the empire.”

“What?” Royce asked.

“According to everything I’ve read since we’ve entered, elves were never enslaved. There’s overwhelming evidence that the elves were equal citizens—even revered.”

“I demand that you stop!” Thranic shouted. “You will bring down the judgment of Novron upon us all!”

“Careful, Myron,” Mauvin said. “We wouldn’t want matters to take a bad turn.”

“Blasphemers! Wretched fools! This is why it was wrong to allow those outside the church to learn the Old Speech. This is
why the Patriarch locked up Edmund Hall and sealed off the entrance, because he knew what could happen. This is why the heir had to die, because one day you would come down here. I failed to reach the horn, but I can still serve my faith!”

Thranic moved with a speed unexpected from his withered appearance; he reached out and grabbed the lantern. Before even Royce could react, he threw it at Myron, smashing it. The glass burst with a popping sound. Oil splashed across the parchments, across the floor, across Myron. Flames rushed forth, low blue tongues licking along the glistening oil pool. Fire blazed over the scrolls and raced up Myron’s legs, chest, and face.

Then vanished.

With an audible crack, the room went black.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Arista said in the dark. Her robe began to glow, revealing the room in a cold bluish radiance. She was glaring at Thranic. The pulsating light shining up from underneath lent her a fearful image. “Are you all right, Myron?”

The monk nodded as he sat wiping the oil from his face. “Just a little warm,” he replied. “And I think my eyebrows are gone.”

“You bastard!” Mauvin shouted at Thranic, getting to his feet and reaching for his sword. “You could have killed him! You could have killed all of us!”

Even Gaunt was on his feet, but Thranic took no notice. The sentinel did not move. He slouched backward, resting against the wall in an odd twisted position. Thranic’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but he was not breathing.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gaunt asked.

Mauvin reached out. “He’s… dead.”

Heads turned.

“I only extinguished the flames,” Arista told them.

Heads turned again.

Royce was sitting in a different place than he had been before the fire. Arista looked back at Thranic’s body. Blood dripped from a thin red line at the neck.

Mauvin let go of his sword and sat back down. “You sure you’re all right, Myron?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Myron stood up. He walked to the sentinel’s side and knelt down. He took a moment to close Thranic’s eyes, and taking the sentinel’s hand, he bowed his head and softly sang:

Unto Maribor, I beseech thee

Into the hands of god, I send thee

Grant him peace, I beg thee

Give him rest, I ask thee

May the god of men watch over your journey.

“How can you do that?” Gaunt asked. “He tried to kill you. He tried to burn you alive. Are you so ignorant that you don’t see that?”

Myron ignored Gaunt and remained beside Thranic, his head bowed, his eyes closed. A silence passed; then Myron folded Thranic’s hands over his chest and stood up. He paused before Gaunt. “ ‘More valuable than gold, more precious than life, is mercy bestowed upon he who hast not known its soft kiss’—Girard Hily,
Proverbs of the Soul
.”

The monk took another lantern out of Mauvin’s pack. “Starting to run low on these,” he said, opening it and reaching for the tinder kit.

“Better let me,” Hadrian said. “A stray spark could light you up instead.”

The monk handed the lantern over and looked at the rest of them. “Will anyone help me bury him?”

Degan made a sound like a laugh and limped away.

“I will.” Magnus spoke up from where he still sat on the far side of the room. “We can use the stones from the cave-in.”

Without a word, Hadrian got up and lifted Thranic’s body, which folded in the middle like a thick blanket. His arms splayed out to either side, white and limp. Arista watched as he left a trail of dark droplets on the dusty stone. She looked back at the space behind, at the clutter in the corner where Thranic had lain. Pots, cups, torn cloth, soiled blankets, trash—it reminded her of a mouse’s den.
How long was he here? How long did he lie in this room alone waiting to die? How long will we?

Arista stood up and, turning away from the trash and the puddle of blood, moved to the sealed door. She touched the stone and the metal rods that held it closed. The door was cold. She pressed her palms flat against the surface and laid her head close. She heard nothing. She reminded herself that it was
not a living creature
and did not grow restless. She could feel it, a power radiating, pushing against her like the opposite pole of a magnet. Her encounter with the oberdaza made her sensitive to magic. The new smell that had confused her before the palace was no longer a mystery. Beyond the door lay magic, but not the vague, shifting sort that defined the oberdaza. The Ghazel witch doctors appeared in her mind as shadows that darted and whirled, pulsating irregularly, but this… this was greater. The power on the other side was clear, intense, and amazing. In it, she could detect elements of the weave. She could see it with her feelings, for there was more than magic that formed the pattern. An underlying sadness dominated and endowed the spell with incredible strength. An incomprehensible grief and the strength of self-sacrifice were bound together by a single strand of hope. It frightened her, yet at the same time, she found it beautiful.

Outside in the hallway, she could hear the clack of stones being stacked. Hadrian returned, wiping his hands against his clothes as if trying to wipe off a disease. He sat beside Royce in the shadows, away from the others.

She crossed the room, knelt down before them, and sat on her legs with the robe pooling out around her.

“Any ideas?” she asked, nodding toward the sealed door.

Royce and Hadrian exchanged glances.

“A few,” Royce said.

“I knew I could count on you.” She brightened. “You’ve always been there for us, Alric’s miracle workers.”

Hadrian grimaced. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“You stole the treasure from the Crown Tower and put it back the next night. You broke into Avempartha, Gutaria Prison, and Drumindor—
twice
. How much harder can this be?”

“You only know about the successes,” Royce said.

“There’ve been failures?”

They looked at each other and smiled painfully. Then they both nodded.

“But you’re still alive. I should have thought a failure—”

“Not all failures end in death. Take our mission to steal DeWitt’s sword from Essendon Castle. You can hardly call that a success.”

“But there was no sword. It was a trap. And in the end it all worked out. I hardly call that a failure.”

“Alburn was,” Royce said, and Hadrian nodded dramatically.

“Alburn?”

“We spent more than a year in King Armand’s dungeon,” Hadrian told her. “What was that, about six years ago? Seven? Right after that bad winter. You might remember it, real cold spell. The Galewyr froze for the first time in memory.”

“I remember that. My father wanted to hold a big party for my twentieth birthday, only no one could come.”

“We stayed the whole season in Medford,” Royce said. “Safe and comfortable—it was nice, actually, but we got soft and out of practice. We were just plain sloppy.”

“We’d still be in that dungeon right now if it wasn’t for Leo and Genny,” Hadrian said.

“Leo and Genny?” Arista asked. “Not the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle?”

“Yep.”

“They’re friends of yours?”

“They are now,” Royce said.

“We got the job through Albert, who took the assignment from another middleman. A typical double-blind operation, where we don’t know the client and they don’t know us. Turns out it was the duke and duchess. Albert broke the rules in telling them who we were and they convinced Armand to let us out. I’m still not certain how.”

“They were scared we’d talk,” Royce added.

Hadrian scowled at him, then rolled his eyes. “About what? We didn’t know who hired us at the time.”

Royce shrugged and Hadrian looked back at Arista.

“Anyway, we were just lucky Armand never bothered to execute us. But yeah, we don’t always win. Even that Crown Tower job was a disaster.”

“You were an idiot for coming back,” Royce told him.

“What happened?” Arista asked.

“Two of the Patriarch’s personal guards caught Royce when we were putting the treasure back.”