Nyphron rising trr-3

by Michael J. Sullivan

  "I suppose I could look into Esrahaddon's story. Hadrian would be a fool for dedicating his life to someone else's dream, but at least I'd know it was genuine and not some kind of wizard's trick."

  "How can you find out?"

  "Hadrian grew up in Hintindar. If his father was a Teshlor Knight, maybe he left behind some indication. At least then I would have someone else's word instead of just Esrahaddon's. Our job is taking us south. I could make a stop in Hintindar and see if I can find something out. By the way," he told her gently, "I'll be gone a good deal longer than I have been. I want you to know so you don't worry needlessly."

  "I never worry about you," she told him.

  Royce's face reflected his pain.

  Gwen smiled. "I know you will return safely."

  "And how do you know this?"

  "I've seen your hands."

  Royce looked at her confused.

  "I've read your palms, Royce," she told him without a trace of humor. "Or have you forgotten I also make a living as a fortune teller?"

  Royce had not forgotten, but assumed it was just a way of swindling the superstitious. Not until that moment did he realize how inconsistent it would be for Gwen to deceive people.

  "You have a long life ahead of you," she went on. "Too long-that was one of the clues that you weren't completely human."

  "So I have nothing to worry about in my future?"

  Gwen's smile faded abruptly.

  "What is it?"

  "Nothing."

  "Tell me," he persisted, gently lifting her chin until she met his eyes.

  "It's just that-you need to watch out for Hadrian."

  "Did you look at his palms, too?"

  "No," she said, "but your lifeline shows a fork, a point of decision. You will head either into darkness and despair or virtue and light. This decision will be precipitated by a traumatic event."

  "What kind of event?"

  "The death of the one you love the most."

  "Shouldn't you be worried about yourself then?"

  Gwen smiled warmly at him. "If only that were so, I'd die a happy woman. Royce, I'm serious about Hadrian. Please watch out for him. I think he needs you now more than ever. And I'm frightened for you if something were to happen to him."

  ***

  When Royce returned to the Rose and Thorn, he found Hadrian still seated at the same table only he was no longer alone. Beside him sat a small figure hooded in a dark cloak. Hadrian sat comfortably. Either the person sitting next to him was safe, or he was too drunk to care.

  "Take it up with Royce when he gets here," Hadrian was saying. "Ah!" He looked up. "Perfect timing."

  "Are you from-" Royce stopped as he sat down and saw the face beneath the hood.

  "I do believe that is the first time I've ever surprised you, Royce," the Princess Arista said.

  "Oh no, that's not true," Hadrian chuckled. "You caught him way off guard when we were hanging in your dungeon and you asked us to kidnap your brother. That was much more unpredictable, trust me."

  Royce was not pleased with the idea of meeting the princess in the open tavern room, and Hadrian was speaking far too loudly for his liking. Luckily, the room was empty. Most of the limited clientele preferred to cluster around the bar, where the door hung open to admit the cool summer breeze.

  "That seems a lifetime ago," Arista replied, thoughtfully.

  "She has a job for you, Royce," Hadrian told him.

  "For us, you mean."

  "I told you." Hadrian looked at him, but allowed a glance at the princess as well. "I'm retired."

  Royce ignored him. "What's been decided?"

  "Alric wants to make contact with Gaunt and his Nationals," Arista began. "He feels, as the rest of us do, that if we can coordinate our efforts we can create a formidable assault. Also, an alliance with the Nationalists could very well be the advantage we need to persuade Trent to enter the war on our side."

  "That's fine," Royce replied. "I expected as much, but did you have to deliver this information yourself? Don't you trust your messengers?"

  "One can never be too careful. Besides, I'm coming with you."

  "What?" Royce asked, stunned.

  Hadrian burst into laughter. "I knew you'd love that part," he said, grinning with the delight of a man blessed with immunity.

  "I am the Ambassador of Melengar, and this is a diplomatic mission. Events are transpiring rapidly and negotiations may need to be altered to suit the situation. I have to go because neither of you can speak for the kingdom. I can't trust anyone, not even you two, with such an important mission. This meeting will likely determine whether or not Melengar survives another year. I hope you understand the necessity of having me along."

  Royce considered the proposal for a few minutes. "You and your brother understand that I cannot guarantee your safety?"

  She nodded.

  "You also understand that between now and the time we reach Gaunt, you will be required to obey Hadrian and myself and will be provided no special treatment because of your station?"

  "I expect none. However, it must also be understood that I am Alric's representative and as such speak with his voice. So where safety and methods are concerned you are granted authority and I will follow your direction, but as far as overall mission goals are concerned I reserve the right to redirect, or extend the mission if necessary."

  "And do you also possess the power to guarantee additional payment for additional services?"

  "I do."

  "I now pronounce you client and escort," Hadrian said with a grin.

  "As for you," Royce told him, "you'd better have some coffee."

  "I'm not going, Royce."

  "What's this all about?" Arista asked.

  Royce scowled and shook his head at her.

  "Don't shut her up," Hadrian said. He turned to the princess and added, "I have officially resigned from Riyria. We are divorced. Royce is single now."

  "Really?" Arista said. "What will you do?"

  "He's going to sober up and get his gear."

  "Royce, listen to me. I mean it. I'm not going. There is nothing you can say to change my mind."

  "Yes, there is."

  "What, have you come up with another fancy philosophical argument? It's not going to work. I told you I'm done. It's over. Look at my face. I'm not kidding. I've had it." Hadrian looked suspiciously at his partner.

  Royce simply looked back with a smug expression. At last Hadrian asked, "Okay, what is it? I'm curious now. What do you think you could possibly say to change my mind?"

  Royce hesitated a moment, glancing uncomfortably at Arista, then sighed. "Because, I am asking you to-as a favor. After this mission, if you still feel the same, I won't fight you and we can part as friends. But I am asking you now-as my friend-to please come with me just one last time."

  Just then, the barmaid arrived at the table.

  "Another round, Hadrian?"

  Hadrian did not look at her, but continued to stare at Royce and sighed.

  "Apparently not. I guess I'll take a cup of coffee, strong and black."

  Chapter 5

  Sheridan

  Drapped in her long dress and riding cloak, Arista baked as the heat of summer arrived early in the day. Making matters worse, Royce insisted she travel with her hood up. She wondered at its value, as she guessed she was just as conspicuous riding so heavily bundled as she would be if riding naked. Her clothes stuck to her skin and it was difficult to breathe, but she said nothing.

  Royce rode slightly ahead on his gray mare that, to Arista's surprise, they called Mouse. A cute name-not at all what she expected. As always, Royce was dressed in black and grays, seemingly oblivious to the heat. His eyes scanned the horizon and forest eaves. Perhaps his elven blood made him less susceptible to the hardships of weather. Even a year later, she still marveled at his mixed race.

  Why had I never noticed?

  Hadrian followed half a length behind and on her right-exactly where Hilfred used to
position himself. It gave her a familiar feeling of safety and security. She glanced back at him and smiled under her hood. He was not immune to the heat. His brow was covered in sweat and his shirt clung to his chest. His collar lay open, his sleeves rolled up revealing strong arms.

  A noticeable silence marked their travel. Perhaps it was the heat or a desire to avoid prying ears, but the lack of conversation denied her a natural venue to question their direction. After slipping out of Medford before sunrise, they had traveled north across fields and deer paths into the highlands before swinging east and catching the road. Arista understood the need for secrecy, and a roundabout course would help confuse any would-be spies, but instead of heading south, Royce led them north, which made no sense at all. She had held her tongue as hours passed and they continued to ride out of Melengar and into Ghent. She was certain Royce took this route for a reason. She had agreed to follow their leadership and it would not do to question his judgment so early in their trip.

  Arista was back in the high meadowlands where only the day before she caught her first sight of the imperial troops gathered against Melengar. A flurry of activity was now underway on the far side of the Galewyr as the army packed up. Tents collapsed, wagons lined up, and masses of men started forming columns. She was fascinated by the sheer number, and guessed there could be more imperial soldiers than citizens remaining in the city of Medford.

  The meadowlands gave way to forest and the view disappeared behind the crest. The shade brought little relief from the heat.

  If only it would rain.

  The sky was overcast but rain was not certain. It was, of course, possible to make it rain.

  Arista recalled at least two ways. One involved an elaborate brewing of compounds and burning the mixture out of doors. This method should result in precipitation within a day, but was not entirely reliable and failed more often than it succeeded. The other was more advanced and instantaneous, requiring great skill and knowledge. It could be accomplished with only hand movements, a focused mind, and words. The first she learned as part of her studies at Sheridan University, where the entire class performed the technique without producing a single drop. The latter Esrahaddon tried to teach her, but because the church amputated his hands he could not demonstrate the complex finger movements. This, of course, was the major obstacle in studying with him. Arista was nearly certain she would never learn anything until, almost by accident, she made a guard sneeze.

  It was an odd sensation, feeling the power of the Art for the first time, like flipping a tiny lever and sliding a gear into place. She succeeded, not due to Esrahaddon's instructions, but rather because she was fed up with him. It was during a state dinner and to alleviate her boredom Arista was running Esrahaddon's instructions through her head. She purposely ignored his directions and tried something on her own. It felt easier, simpler. When she finally found the right combination of movements and sounds, it was like plucking the perfect note of music at exactly the right time.

  That sneeze, along with a short-lived curse placed on Countess Amril, were her only magical successes during her apprenticeship with Esrahaddon. She had tried and failed the rain spell hundreds of times. Then her father was murdered and she never tried again. She was too busy helping Alric with their kingdom to waste time on childish games. She glanced skyward.

  What else do I have to do?

  She recalled the instructions, and letting the reins hang limp on her horse's neck, she practiced the delicate weaving patterns in the air. The incantation she recalled easily enough, but the motions were all wrong. She could feel the awkwardness in the movements. There needed to be a pattern to the motion-a rhythm, a pace. She tried different variations and discovered she could tell which motions felt right and which felt wrong. It was like fitting puzzle pieces together while blindfolded, or working out the notes of a melody by ear. She would simply guess at each note, until by sheer chance, she hit upon the right one, then adding it to the whole she moved on to the next. It was tedious, but it kept her mind occupied. She caught a curious glance from Hadrian but she did not explain, nor did he ask.

  Arista continued to work at the motions as the miles passed until, mercifully, it began to rain on its own. She looked up to let the cool droplets hit her face and she wondered if it was boredom that prompted her recollection of her magical studies, or was it because they had steered off the Imperial Highway and were now on the road to Sheridan University.

  Sheridan was for the sons of merchants and scribes, those needing to know mathematics and writing, not for the nobility, and certainly not for future rulers. What use would a king have for mathematics? What good would come from philosophy? For that, he had advisers. All he needed to know was how to swing a sword, the proper tactics of military maneuvers, and the hearts of men. School could not teach these things. It was rare for a prince or duke's son to attend the university, much less a princess.

  Arista spent some of her happiest years within the sheltered valley of Sheridan. Here the world opened up to her. Here she escaped the suffocating vacuum of courtly life where her only purpose was the same as the statues, another adornment for the castle halls and eventually a commodity-married for the benefit of the kingdom.

  Her father was not at all pleased with his daughter's abnormal interest in books, but he never forbade her. She kept her reading habit discreet, which caused her to spend more and more time alone. She would steal books from the scribe's collection, or scrolls from the clergy. Most often she borrowed books from Bishop Saldur, who often left behind stacks of them after visits with her father. She spent hours reading in the sanctuary of her tower. They took her away to far off lands, where for a time she was happy. They filled her head with ideas; thoughts of a greater world, of a life beyond the halls, of a life lived bravely, heroically. It was through these borrowed books that she learned of the university and later of Gutaria Prison.

  She remembered asking her father permission to attend the university. At first, he adamantly refused and laughed, patting her head. She cried herself to sleep feeling trapped. All her ideas and ambitions sealed forever in a permanent prison. When her father changed his mind the next day, it never occurred to her to ask him why.

  What are we doing here?

  It irked her not knowing-patience was a virtue she still wrestled with. As they descended into the university's vale, she felt a modest inquiry would not hurt. She opened her mouth, but Hadrian beat her to it.

  "Why are we going to Sheridan?" he asked, trotting up closer to Royce.

  "Information," Royce replied in his normal curt manner that betrayed nothing else.

  "It's your party. I'm just along for the ride."

  No, no, no, she thought, ask more. Arista waited. Hadrian let his horse drift back. This was her opening, she had to say something. "Did you know I attended school there? You should speak to the Master of Lore, Arcadius," she offered. "The Chancellor is a pawn of the church, but Arcadius can be trusted. He's a wizard and used to be my professor. He'll know, or be able to find out, whatever it is you're interested in."

  That was perfect. She straightened up in her saddle, pleased with herself. Common politeness would demand Royce reveal his intentions now that she showed an interest, some knowledge on the subject, and an offer to help. She waited. Nothing. The silence returned.

  I should have asked a question. Something to force him to respond. Damn.

  Gritting her teeth, she slumped forward in frustration. She considered pressing further, but the moment had passed and now it would be difficult to say anything without sounding critical. Being an ambassador taught her the value of timing, to be conscious of other people's dignity and authority. Being born a princess, it was a lesson not easily learned. She opted for silence, listening to the rain drum on her hood and the horses plodding through the mud as they descended into the valley.

  ***

  The stone statue of Glenmorgan stood in the center of the university holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other
. Walkways, benches, trees, and flowers surrounded the statue on all sides as did numerous school buildings. A growing enrollment required the addition of several lecture halls and dormitories with each reflecting the architectural styles of their time. In the gray sheets of rain, the university looked like a mirage, a whimsical, romantic dream conceived in the mind of a man who spent his entire life at war. That an institution of pure learning existed in a world of brutish ignorance was more than a dream, it was a miracle, a testament to the wisdom of Glenmorgan.

  Glenmorgan intended the school to educate laymen at a time when hardly any but ecclesiastics could read. Its success was unprecedented. Sheridan achieved eminence above every other seat of learning, winning the praises of patriarchs, kings, and sages. Early on, Sheridan also established itself as a center for lively controversy, with scholars involved in religious and political disputes. Handel of Roe, a Master of Sheridan, campaigned for Ghent's recognition of the newly established Republic of Delgos against the wishes of the Nyphron Church. The school was also decidedly Royalist in the civil wars following the Steward's Reign, which came as an embarrassment to the church that had retained control of Ghent. The humiliation led to the heresy trials of the three masters Cranston, Landoner, and Widley, all burned at the stake on the Sheridan commons. This quieted the school's political voice for more than a century until Edmund Hall, Professor of Geometry and Lore at Sheridan, claimed to use clues gleaned from ancient texts to locate the ruins of Percepliquis. He disappeared for a year and returned with books and tablets revealing arts and sciences long lost spurring an interest in all things imperial. At this time, a greater orthodoxy had emerged within the church and it outlawed owning or obtaining holy relics, as all artifacts from the ancient Empire were deemed. They arrested Hall and locked him in Ervanon's Crown Tower along with his notes and maps. The church later declared that Hall never found the city and that the books were clever fakes, but no one ever heard from Edmund Hall again.