Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (90 page)

Myron was the only one who showed no signs of concern. After speaking to Merton, he spent his time with the boys, discovering how they had built the Hovel and asking numerous questions about how the horses had fared while they were gone. They told him how the cold cracked their spit and the monk marveled at their tales. He helped them cook a fine dinner and generally kept the boys busy with chores both in preparation and cleanup.

The sun set and darkness enveloped them save for the light of the campfire. It was not unlike the one Arista had sat beside less than a year earlier and very close to the same spot. A little farther up the slope, perhaps. So much had happened, so much had changed since the night she had ridden with Etcher. Amberton Lee was a different place now. With him she had felt lost in the wilderness. Now she was at the center of the world.

Ancient stones upon the Lee

Dusts of memories gone we see

Once the center, once the all

Lost forever, fall the wall.

She too was different. Perhaps they all were.

“Why don’t you and the girls bed down in the shelter there?” Hadrian said to Modina, seeing the girls yawning. “You don’t mind, do you, boys?”

They all shook their heads, staring, as they had been for some time, at the empress.

“Where will Degan sleep?” Modina asked, looking across the fire to where Degan was repeating the girls’ yawns.

“Near the fire with the rest of us, I suppose,” Hadrian responded.

The empress lifted her voice and said, “Degan, you will sleep with me in the shelter tonight.”

Degan rolled his eyes. “I appreciate the offer—I do—but really this isn’t the night for—”

“I need you rested. The fate of our race depends on your victory tomorrow. The shelter is the most comfortable place. You will
sleep
there, do you understand?”

He nodded with an expression that showed no will to argue.

Modina stood, looked at Arista, and then embraced and kissed her. “Again, thank you.”

She went around the fire, thanking, embracing, and kissing each. Then, wiping her face, Modina returned to the shelter of the Hovel.

“Do you think it will work?” Arista asked Hadrian, who smirked. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. This was my idea, after all.”

“And a damn fine one at that. Have I mentioned how smart you are?”

She scowled at him. “I’m not that smart—you’re just blinded by love.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Her expression softened. “No.”

He sat propped against one of the trees and she lay down in his arms. When he squeezed her, she felt a weight lifted and
she reveled in the warmth and safety of his embrace. Her eyes drifted to the stars. She wanted to tell them not to leave, to order the sun never to rise, because for this one moment everything was perfect. She could stay as she was, stay in Hadrian’s arms, and forget about what was to come.

“One of the great disappointments about living so long is that when the moment of triumph comes, there is no one to share it with,” Mawyndulë said as he stepped into the ring of firelight, looking at them with a pleasant smile. His guards followed and placed his chair for him. Mawyndulë sat, showing no disappointment with their glares.

Arista closed her eyes and reached out delicately. She sensed Mawyndulë’s power. In her mind, magic appeared as a light in darkness. The oberdaza flickered like torches but Mawyndulë burned like the sun. She avoided him and focused on his guards. They were not men or even elves. They were the same as the Gilarabrywn—pure magic.

“It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?” the old elf said. “And what a pitiful excuse for a fire.”

Mawyndulë clapped his hands and the flames grew tall and bright. The boys jerked back in fear. Monsignor Merton got up and took several steps back, his eyes wide.

The old man held his hands out to the licking flames and rubbed them together. “Ah, much better. My old bones can’t take the cold like they used to.”

“Magic,” Merton whispered, “is forbidden by the church.”

“Of course it is. I don’t want mongrels practicing my Art; it’s insulting. Would you like it if I wore your clothes? Took them out, got them all dirty, and made fun of them in public? Of course not, and I won’t allow humans to defile what is mine.”

“How is magic… yours?” Royce asked.

“Inheritance. My family invented the Art, so it is mine.
Wretched thieves stole it, so I took it back. Esrahaddon was the last of the thieves. He used my Art to destroy Percepliquis.” The old man’s eyes drifted off, looking at something unseen. “He killed all of them—did it to stop me, but he failed. Not only did I survive, but I was able to keep him alive as well. I needed to know where the boy was, you see. I thought in time he would relent and eventually he did, although unknowingly.” The old man smirked and looked back at them. “Is anyone else hungry?”

Mawyndulë spoke words unknown to Arista and made a gesture with his fingers, and before them a banquet of food appeared. A tableful of hams, ducks, and quails were roasted to bronze perfection and wreathed in vegetables, candied walnuts, and berries.

“What’s wrong, Merton?” Mawyndulë asked without bothering to look at the priest, who had an expression of horror across his face. “Are you shocked? Of course you are, and with good reason, but please eat. The food is delicious and I do so hate to dine alone. Go ahead, everyone, dig in.”

Mawyndulë did not wait for them and began tearing off chucks of ham. Glass goblets appeared on the table and filled themselves with a deep-red liquid. The Patriarch picked up one and drained it to wash down the ham. The goblet was full again before he set it back onto the table.

No one else touched the food.

“Where is he?” Mawyndulë asked. “Where is my worthy adversary? Hasn’t run off, has he? The rules clearly state that if he fails to show, I win by default.”

“He’s sleeping,” Hadrian said.

“Ah, getting a good night’s rest. Very wise. Personally I can never sleep before these things. Gaunt takes after his ancestor. Nyphron slept the night before too. I knew him, you know, your beloved Novron. Ah, but yes, you already discovered
that little fact. Here’s something the books won’t tell you. He was an ass. All those tales about him saving humanity for the love of a farmer’s daughter are absolute rubbish. He was no different than anyone else, and like everyone, he sought power. His tribe was small and weak, so he harnessed all of you as fodder for his battles. The Instarya are the best warriors, of course. I will grant them that. There’s no point in denying it. That is
their
art, and he taught it to your knights. Still, humans would not have won if not for Cenzlyor, who taught them my Art as well.

“Novron was so arrogant, so sure of himself. He played the wise, forgiving conqueror at Avempartha and those in power were more than willing to bow before him. They were all frightened children at his feet—the boy from the inferior clan. Your great god was just a vindictive brat bent on revenge.”

The old man bit into a leg of duck and sat back with a glass of wine in his other hand. He leaned on one arm of the chair and looked up toward the stars. He followed the duck with a fresh strawberry and swooned. “Oh, you’ve
got
to try one of these. They’re perfect. That’s the problem with the real thing—you can never find them at their peak. Or they’re too big or too small, too tart or sweet. No, I must admit, I pride myself on creating a good strawberry.”

He licked his fingers and looked at them. No one moved.

“It was
you
,” Merton said at last. “The one you spoke of at the cathedral, the ancient enemy controlling everything.”

“Of course,” the old man said. “I told you that if you thought hard enough, you’d figure it out, didn’t I?” He picked a grape this time but grimaced as he chewed. “See, I’m not nearly as good at these. Far too sour.”

“You
are
evil.”

“What do you know of evil?” Mawyndulë’s tone turned harsh. “You know nothing about it.”

“I do,” Royce said.

Mawyndulë peered at the thief and nodded. “Then you know that evil is not born, but created. I was turned into what I have become. The council did that to me. They made me believe what they said. They put the dagger in my hand and sent me out with words of blessing. Elders who I revered, who I respected and trusted as the wisest of my people, told me what needed to be done. I believed them when they said the fate of our race was upon me. Back then, we were as you are now, a flickering flame in a growing wind. Nyphron had taken Avempartha. The council convinced me that I was our nation’s last hope. They told me my father was too stubborn to make peace and that he would see us all die. As long as he breathed, as long as he was king, we were doomed. No one dared move against him, as the murderer would pay first in this life and then in the next.”

Mawyndulë plucked another strawberry but hesitated to eat. He held it between his fingers, rolling it.

“Ten priests of Ferrol swore I would be absolved. Because the existence of the elven race was at stake, they convinced me that Ferrol would see me as a savior, not a murderer. The council agreed to support me, to waive the law. They were so sincere and I was… so young. As my father died, I saw him cry, not for himself but for me, because he knew what they had done, and what my fate would be.”

“Why are you here?” Arista asked.

Mawyndulë seemed to have just become aware of them around him. “What?”

“I asked why you were here. Won’t they allow you in the elven camp? Are you still an outcast?”

Mawyndulë glanced over his shoulder. “After I am king, they will accept me. They will do whatever I say.”

He shifted in his seat and stroked one of the long arms of
the chair. It was of unusual design but strangely familiar in shape. It was not until he moved that Arista realized she had seen similar ones in Avempartha. The Patriarch had brought his own chair with him—not from Aquesta, not from Ervanon, but from home.

He hasn’t touched anything but that chair.

She imagined Mawyndulë sealed in the Crown Tower, living in isolation, surrounded by elven furnishing, doing what he could to separate himself.

Mawyndulë looked over to where Magnus sat. “I would have honored our agreement, dwarf. Your people could have had Delgos once more. I have no use for that rock. Of course, now I will have to kill you. As for the rest, you’ve done me a great service by retrieving the horn and for that I am tempted to let you all live. I could make you court slaves. You will be wonderful novelties—the last humans! A shame you die so quickly, but I suppose I could breed you. The princess looks healthy enough. I could raise a small domestic herd. You could perform at feasts. Oh, don’t look so distraught. It’s better than dying.”

Mauvin’s expression hardened and Arista noticed the muscles on his sword arm tighten. She threw him a stern look. He glared back but relaxed.

“Why bother to create the New Empire,” Arista asked quickly, “just to destroy it?”

“I broke Esrahaddon’s spell and released the Gilarabrywn from Avempartha to show my brothers how weak the human world is, to encourage them to march the moment the
Uli Vermar
ended. Others took it upon themselves to use the occasion to their advantage. Still, I took advantage of Saldur, Galien, and Ethelred’s blundering to press for the eradication of the half-breeds. While my word will be undisputed as king, killing any who bear even a small amount of elven blood might not be popular with my kin once I assume the throne. And I
cannot abide having their abomination survive. I was the one who started the idea that elves were slaves in the Old Empire. It made it easier, you see—it is so simple to hate those you feel are inferior.”

“You’re so sure of yourself,” Mauvin said. “This protection of Ferrol is some sort of religious blessing. Placed on you by your god. It’s supposed to prevent anyone—other than Gaunt—from harming you, right? Thing is, a week ago Novron was a god too. Turns out that was just a lie. A story invented to control us. So what if this is too? What if Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor are all just stories? If it is, I could draw my sword and cut through that miserable throat of yours and save everyone here a lot of trouble.”

“Mauvin, don’t,” Arista said.

Mawyndulë chuckled. “Ever the Pickering, aren’t you? Go on, dear count. Swing away.”

“Don’t,” Arista told him firmly.

Mauvin’s eyes showed that he was considering it, but the count did not move.

“You are wise to listen to your princess.” He paused. “Oh, but I forget, you’re his queen, aren’t you? King Alric is dead. You left him down there, didn’t you? Abandoned him to rot. What poor help you turned out to be.”

“Mauvin, please. Let it go. He’ll be dead tomorrow.”

“Do you really think so?” Mawyndulë snapped his fingers and a huge block of stone making up a portion of the ruins exploded, throwing up a cloud of dust. Everyone jumped.

The old man laughed and said, “I don’t agree with your assessment. I think the odds are decidedly in my favor. It’s a shame, though, that there will be so few of you left.” He paused to look them over. “Is this all that survived? A queen, a count, a thief, the Teshlor, and…” He looked at Myron. “Who exactly would you be?”