Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (87 page)

He sat down, looking exhausted. “I’ve hated you for so long and you go and do this.” He put his face in his hands and began to rock forward and back.

“Maybe,” Myron said, coming behind the dwarf and placing a hand on his back. “Maybe Magnus did die.”

The dwarf looked up and scowled.

“Maybe you should let him die,” the monk added. “Let the hate, fear, and anger die with him. This is a chance to start over. The princess has given you a new life. You can choose to live it any way you want starting right now.”

The dwarf lost his scowl.

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” Myron said. “Imagining a different life? I was scared too, but you can do it.”

“He’s right,” Arista said. “This could be a new start.”

“That all depends,” Magnus replied, “and we’ll find out soon enough.”

The dwarf stood up.

“Royce!” he shouted. “Come down a second.”

The thief looked irritated but grabbed a line and slid down, touching the deck lightly.

“What is it? I can’t leave Mauvin up there alone, and I’m not feeling very well as it is.”

Magnus held out Alverstone. “Take it back.”

Royce narrowed his eyes. “I thought you wanted it.”

“Take it. You might need it—sooner than you think.”

Royce took the dagger suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

Magnus glanced at Arista, and Myron, and lastly at Gaunt, who had finally secured the jib and walked over.

“Before we left Aquesta, I made a bargain with the Patriarch.”

“What
kind
of bargain?” Royce asked.

“I was supposed to kill Degan after we found the horn, but before we left the caves. I was hired to kill him and return the horn to His Grace.”

“You planned to betray us—again?” Royce asked.

“Yes.”

“You were going to kill me?” Gaunt asked.

Royce stared at Magnus and looked down at the dagger.

Myron and Arista watched him closely, tense, waiting.

“Why are you telling me this?”

The dwarf hesitated briefly. “Because… Magnus died before he could go through with it.”

Royce stared at the dwarf, turning Alverstone over and over in his hands and pursing his lips. He glanced at Arista and at Myron, then nodded. “You know, I never did like that short son of a bitch.” He held out the dagger. “Here, I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”

Magnus did nothing for several minutes but stare at the dagger. He seemed to have trouble breathing. He finally stood up straight. “No.” The dwarf shook his head. “Magnus
thought—when you gave him that dagger—it was the most valuable gift he could ever receive. He was wrong.”

Royce nodded and slipped Alverstone back into the folds of his cloak. He gripped the rope and began to climb.

Magnus stood looking lost for a moment.

“Are you all right?” Myron asked.

“I don’t know.” He looked down at the deck. “If Magnus died, then who am I?”

“Whoever you want to be,” the monk said. “It’s a pretty wonderful gift.”

“How far are we?” Arista asked Hadrian, sitting down on the wheel box beside him. The fighter was still grappling with the ship, still struggling to keep its sails balanced.

“Not sure, but judging from the last crossing, we should see land in the next hour, unless Royce and I messed up really bad on the course or I wreck us. Too far this way and the sails collapse and we lose headway, which means we can’t steer. Too far the other way and the wind will flip us. Wyatt made this look so easy.”

“Is it true what Magnus told me? Did you really find them?”

Hadrian nodded sadly. “He was a good man—they both were. I keep thinking of Allie. They were the only family she had. Now what’s going to happen to her?”

She nodded. So much death, so much sadness there were times she felt she might drown. Overhead the canvas fluttered, like the sheet of a maid making up a bed. The rings rattled against the poles and the waves crashed into the hull.

She watched Hadrian standing at the wheel, his chin up, his back straight, and his eyes watching the water. The breeze
blew back his hair, showing a worn face, but not hard or broken. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the muscles of his forearms stood out. She noted several scars on his arms. Two looked new—red and raised. His hands were broad and large, and his skin so tanned that his fingernails stood out lighter. He was a handsome man, but this was the first time she had really noticed. His looks were not what attracted her. It was his warmth, his kindness, his humor, and how safe it felt to sit beside him on a cold, dark night. Still, she had to admit that he was a handsome man in his tattered, coarse cloth and raw leather. She wondered how many women had noticed, and how many he had known. She glanced back across the sea behind them; the crypt of emperors seemed very far away.

“You know, we really haven’t had a chance to talk since getting out.” She looked at the waves breaking at the bow. “I mean—you said some things in there that—well, maybe they were only meant for in there. We both thought we were dying and people can—”

“I meant every word,” he told her firmly. “How about you, do you regret it?”

She smiled and shook her head. “When I woke up, I thought it might have been a beautiful dream. I never really considered myself the kind of woman men wanted. I’m pushy, controlling, I butt into places I shouldn’t, and I have far too many opinions on far too many subjects—subjects women aren’t supposed to be interested in. I never even bothered to try to make myself more appealing. I avoided dances and never presented myself with my hair up and neckline down. I don’t have a clue about flirting.” She sighed and ran a hand over her matted hair. “I never cared how I looked before, but now… for the first time I’d like to be pretty… for you.”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

“It’s dark.”

“Oh, wait.” Hadrian reached over to his backpack. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just do it and hold out your hands.”

She did as instructed, feeling a bit silly as she heard him rummaging through his pack, then silence. A moment later she felt something in her hands. Her fingers closed and she knew what it was before she opened her eyes. She began to cry.

“What’s wrong?” Hadrian asked in a sudden panic.

“Nothing,” she said, wiping the tears away and feeling foolish. She had to stop this. He was going to think she cried all the time.

“Then why are you crying?”

“It’s okay. I’m happy.”

“You are?” Hadrian asked skeptically.

She nodded, smiling at him as tears continued to run down her cheeks.

“It’s not worth getting all that excited over, you know. Everything else in that place was gold and encrusted in jewels. I’m not even sure this is real silver. I was actually so disappointed that I considered not giving it to you, but after what you said—”

“It’s the most wonderful gift you could have given me.”

Hadrian shrugged. “It’s just a hairbrush.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “It really is.”

M
odina faced the Gilarabrywn. She waited for it to attack, to kill her and the rest of her family. But the beast did none of those things. The monster stared at her for a moment, then spread its wings and lifted off, flying away.

They all waited, staring out through the missing wall.

“Horses,” someone said, and soon Modina also heard the sound of trotting hooves.

Twelve elves rode on white mounts. They wore lion helms and long purple capes that draped over the back of their mounts. Drawing off their helms in unison, they revealed long white hair, sharp pointed ears, angled brows, and luminous eyes of green, as if a magical fire burned within.

The lead rider looked about the shattered ruins of the castle; the mere turning of his head revealed a startling, unworldly grace and it was easy to understand how they were once thought to be gods. His eyes settled on Modina, and Amilia wondered how she could manage to stand beneath his stare.

“
Er un don Irawondona fey Asendwayr. Susyen vie eyurian Novron fey Instayria?
” he said. His voice sounded like the ringing of fine crystal.

Modina continued to stare back at the elf.

Nimbus rose and, moving to Modina’s side, replied, “
Er un don Modina vie eyurian Novron fey Instayria.
”

The elf stared at Modina for a long moment, then dismounted, his movements as fluid as silk blowing in the wind. Amilia thought his expression was filled with contempt, but she knew nothing about elves.

“What did you two say?” Modina asked.

“He introduced himself as Lord Irawondona of the Asendwayr tribe. He said the Gilarabrywn heard your claim and came to ask if you were in fact the daughter of Novron. I told him yes.”

“Vie eyurian Novron un Persephone, cy mor guyernian fi hyliclor Gylindora dur Avempartha sen youri? Uli Vermar fie veriden ves uyeria! Ves Ferrol boryeten.”

“He asks, if you are the daughter of Novron and Persephone, why have you not presented the horn for challenge at Avempartha? He says that the
Uli Vermar
ended some time ago and by failing to present the horn you stand in violation before Ferrol.”

“Vie hillin jes lineia hes filhari fi ish tylor baliyan. Sein lori es runyor ahit eston.”

“He says that by not producing the horn, your violation releases them from all treaties, agreements, and requirements to abide your commands.”

“Tell him I’m in the process of retrieving the horn.”

Nimbus spoke in the musical language and the elven lord replied.

“He insists that you must present it at once.”

Nimbus spoke again, and the elf turned and consulted with one of the mounted riders.

“I explained that it was in the ancient city of Percepliquis and would be brought here soon. I hope that I did not overstep my—”

Modina took Nimbus’s face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. “I love you, Nimbus.”

The chancellor looked befuddled and, stepping back, checked to see if his wig was on straight.

“He is coming back,” Amilia told them.

Once more Nimbus did the talking. There appeared to be some kind of minor dispute and once the elven lord looked over Nimbus’s shoulder at the girls sitting on the floor, then nodded. With the tone of general agreement, the elf remounted his horse and rode back out of the courtyard with the others.

“What?” Modina asked.

“They have decided not to wait and will go to Percepliquis to meet the horn. Should you be telling the truth, they will hold the challenge ceremony there. If you are lying, Irawondona will claim his right to rule through default. I presume that will mean they will continue in their march to rid the world of mankind. Either way you must go with them.”

“When?”

“You have just enough time to grab a change of clothes, I think. I tried to arrange a small retinue, but they refused. I did manage to gain agreement for the girls to go. Allie deserves to be with her father when he returns and Mercy will comfort her if he does not. I told him they were your daughters.”

“Thank you, Nimbus, you may very well have saved all our lives.”

“I fear it may only be a stay of execution.”

“Not if Arista succeeds, and every day granted to us is another day to hope.”

Mince climbed out of the Hovel, pulling his hood up and yawning. The others had kicked him awake, as it was his turn
to check the horses. The rule in their group had always been that those who worked ate. It was a simple rule, with little room for interpretation, but early on a cold winter’s morning, when he was bundled in blankets and half-asleep, the thought of going outside in the wind and snow made forgetting even simple rules easy. Finally he had relented, knowing they would just kick him harder.

He stood up and stretched his back as he did every morning, thinking about how old he was getting. It was still early, and the sun was only now breaching the tree line, casting sharp angles of golden light in slants, making the snow crystals glimmer. It was warmer, but the night’s chill still lingered. He decided it was the wetness that made it feel worse; at least when it was cold, the air and even snow were dry.

Mince walked to the line of horses waiting for him. He knew them all by name and they knew him. Each of their heads turned, their ears rotating his way. They were lucky. The bitter cold had ended abruptly and none of the horses had died. Even the one Mince was certain had stopped breathing survived.

“Morning, ladies and gents,” he greeted them as he did each day, with a nod of his head and a wave of his hand. “How are we this miserable excuse of a day, huh? What’s that, Simpleton? You don’t agree? You think it is a fine day, you say? Much warmer than yesterday morn? Well, I don’t know if I can agree with you, sir. What’s that, Mouse? You agree with Simpleton? Hmm, I don’t know. It just seems… too quiet—far too quiet.”

It did. Mince stood still with his feet in the slush and listened. There were no wind or sound. It was a strange sort of stillness, as if the world were dead.

Perhaps it is.

Who knew what had happened up north, or to the south, for that matter.

What if they are all dead now? What if the four of us are all that are left?

A crow cawed in a nearby tree; the stark call made the silence desolate. A sense of emptiness and loss hung in the air. Mince felt the line tethering the horses, making sure it was still secure, then pulled open the feed bags. Normally they jostled each other, trying to stick their noses in, but this morning something drew their attention. The horse’s heads turned, their ears twitching to the left, their big eyes peering.

“Someone’s coming?” Mince whispered to Princess. Her head bounced up and down, which shocked him, but then she quickly followed that with a shaking as well.

A few moments later, he heard hooves and he ran to the Hovel to wake the others.

“Who is it?” Brand whispered.

“How should I know?” Mince replied, pulling himself fully inside.

“It’s certainly not Hadrian and the rest,” Elbright pointed out. “They left their horses with us.”

“Maybe it’s Renwick coming back?” Kine suggested hopefully, and this returned several positive looks and nods.

“One of us should look,” Elbright said commandingly, getting to his knees and pulling on his cloak.

“Not me,” Mince said. “Let Brand do it. He’s the bold one.”

“Hush,” Elbright snapped, “I’m going.”

He pulled a bit of the tarp aside and looked out.

“Do you see ’em?” Kine asked.

“No.”

“Maybe they—”

“Shh!” Elbright held up his hand. “Listen.”

Faint voices carried across the stillness of the winter morning.

“
They went down here
,” a voice said.

“Oh my! That does look rather unpleasant. Is Your Grace certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“They don’t sound like elves,” Kine whispered.

“Like you know how elves talk,” Mince said.

“It doesn’t sound like Renwick either,” Brand added.

“Will you all shut up!” Elbright hissed, slapping Kine on the head.

“
It’s so deep you can’t see the bottom.
” The faint voice spoke again.

“It’s very deep indeed.”

“There are no tracks near it.”

“They are still inside, still down there, still dredging up secrets and stirring old memories, but they are coming. Already they are quite near and they have the horn.”

“How do you know that?”

“Call it… an old man’s intuition.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That they have the horn?”

“Oh yes, that is very good.”

The sound of crunching snow could be heard, growing louder.

“They’re coming this way,” Elbright said.

“Can you see them yet?” Kine asked.

“There are four of them. One looks like a priest in a black frock, two are soldiers, and there’s an old man in bright-colored robes with long white hair. The soldiers are kind of strange-looking.”

“What are they doing here?” Brand asked.

“
Their horses
,” a voice outside said. They were much closer now. The boys could hear the squishing of the slushy ground. “
You can come out, young men.
”

They looked at each other nervously.

“Renwick, Elbright, Brand, Kine, Mince, come, we are going to have breakfast.”

Elbright was the first one out, emerging from the tarp carefully. His head turned from side to side. They each followed him slowly, squinting in the sunlight, and just as Elbright had described, four men stood before them in the small clearing. They looked terribly out of place. The man with the long white hair was wearing purple, red, and gold robes and he leaned on a staff. To either side stood the soldiers, in gold breastplates, helms, and sleeves. They also wore colorful pants of red, purple, and yellow. Each held a spear and wore a sword. The priest was the only normal-looking fellow, standing with his weight on one leg in the traditionally drab black habit of a Nyphron priest.

“Who are you?” Elbright asked.

“This is His Grace the Patriarch of the Nyphron Church,” the priest told him.

“Oh,” Elbright said, nodding. Mince could tell he was trying to sound like he knew who that was, but his friend knew better. Elbright was always doing that, making out like he was more worldly than he was.

“These are his bodyguards and I am Monsignor Merton of Ghent.”

“Guess you already know us,” Elbright said. “What are you doing here?”

“Just waiting,” the Patriarch replied. “Like you—waiting for them to climb back out of that hole and change the nature of the world forever. Certainly you can’t begrudge us the desire of a front-row seat.”

The old man looked at his guards and they trudged off.

“How’s Renwick?” Mince asked. “Did he make it to Aquesta?”

“I’m sorry,” Monsignor Merton replied kindly. “We traveled by sea around the horn to Vernes and then by coach. We
left quite some time ago, so it is entirely possible that he arrived after we left. Was he a friend?”