Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “I left.”

  “Pity. You’re a fine soldier.” Ethelred clapped Hadrian on the shoulder.

  “Of course he is, Lanis. That’s the whole point,” Saldur reminded him.

  Ethelred chuckled, then said, “Too true, too true. So, has he accepted?”

  “We haven’t asked him yet.”

  “Asked me what?”

  “Hadrian, we have a little problem,” Ethelred began. As he spoke, he paced back and forth between Saldur’s desk and the door. He kept the fingers of his left hand tucked in his belt behind his back while using his right to assist him in speaking, like a conductor uses a baton. “His name is Archibald Ballentyne. He’s a sniveling little weasel. All of the Ballentynes have been worthless, pitiful excuses for men, but he’s also the Earl of Chadwick. So, by virtue of his birth, he rules over a province that is worthless in all ways except one. Chadwick is the home to Lord Belstrad, whose eldest son, Sir Breckton, is very likely the best knight in Avryn. When I say best, I mean that in every sense of the word. His skill at arms is unmatched, as are his talent for tactics and his aptitude for leadership. Unfortunately, he’s also loyal to a fault. He serves Archie Ballentyne and only Archie.”

  Ethelred crossed the room and took a seat by hopping onto Saldur’s desk, causing the old man to flinch.

  “I wanted Breckton as my general, but he refuses to obey the chain of command and won’t listen to anyone except Archie. I can’t waste time filtering all my orders through that pissant. So we offered Breckton a prime bit of land and a title to abandon Ballentyne, but the fool wasn’t interested.”

  “The war is over, or soon will be,” Hadrian pointed out. “You don’t need Breckton anymore.”

  “That is exactly correct,” Saldur said.

  There was something in the detached way he spoke that chilled Hadrian.

  “Even without a war we still need strong men to enforce order,” Ethelred explained. Picking up a glass figurine from Saldur’s desk, he began passing it from hand to hand.

  Saldur’s jaw clenched as his eyes tracked each toss.

  “When Breckton turned us down, Archie threatened to use his knight and the Royalists against us. Can you believe that? He said he would march on Aquesta! He thinks he can challenge me! The little sod—” Ethelred slammed the figurine down on the desk, shattering it. “Oh—sorry, Sauly.”

  Saldur sighed but said nothing.

  “Anyway,” Ethelred went on, dusting off his hands so that bits of glass rained on the desk. “Who could have guessed a knight would turn down an offer to rise to the rank of marquis and command a whole kingdom as his fief? The piss-proud pillock! And what’s he doing it for? Loyalty to Archie Ballentyne. Who hates him. Always has. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Which brings us to why you’re here, Mr. Blackwater,” Saldur said. He used a lace handkerchief to gingerly sweep the broken glass off his desk into a wastebasket. “As much as I would like to take credit for it, this is all Guy’s idea.” Saldur nodded toward the sentinel.

  Guy never changed his wooden stance, remaining at attention as if it were his natural state.

  “Finding you in our courtyard, Guy realized that you can solve our little problem with Sir Breckton.”

  “I’m not following,” Hadrian said.

  Saldur rolled his eyes. “We can’t allow Breckton to reach his army at Drondil Fields. We would be forever at the mercy of Archie. He could dictate any terms so long as Breckton controlled the loyalty of the army.”

  Hadrian’s confusion continued. “And…?”

  Ethelred chuckled. “Poor Sauly, you deal too much in subtlety. This man is a fighter, not a strategist. He needs it spelled out.” Turning to Hadrian, he said, “Breckton is a capable warrior and we had no hope of finding anyone who could defeat him until Guy pointed out that you are the perfect man for the job. To be blunt, we want you to kill Sir Breckton.”

  “The Wintertide tournament will start in just a few days,” Saldur continued. “Breckton is competing in the joust and we want you to battle him and win. His lance will be blunted, while yours will have a war point hidden beneath a porcelain shell. When he dies, our problem will be solved.”

  “And exactly why would I agree?”

  “Like the good regent explained,” Guy said, “killing seret is an executable offense.”

  “Plus,” Ethelred put in, “as a token of our appreciation, we will sweeten the deal by paying you one hundred solid gold tenents. What do you say?”

  Hadrian knew he could never murder Breckton. While he had never met the man, he was familiar with Breckton’s younger brother Wesley, who had served with Royce and Hadrian on the Emerald Storm. The young man had died in battle, fighting beside them at the Palace of the Four Winds. His sacrificial charge had saved their lives. No man had ever proven himself more worthy of loyalty, and if Breckton was half the man his younger brother was, Hadrian owed him at least one life.

  “What can he say?” Saldur answered for him. “He has no choice.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Hadrian replied. “You’re right. I am a trained Teshlor, and while you’ve been talking, I’ve calculated eight different ways to kill everyone in this room. Three using nothing more than that little letter opener Regent Saldur has been playing with.” He let his arms fall loose and shifted his stance. This immediately set Ethelred and Guy, the two fighters, on the defensive.

  “Hold on now.” Saldur’s voice wavered and his face showed strain. “Before you make any rash decisions, consider that the window is too small to fit through, and the men in the corridor will not let you leave. If you really are as good as you say, you might take a great many of them with you, but even you cannot defeat them all.”

  “You might be right. We’ll soon find out.”

  “Are you insane? You’re choosing death?” Saldur erupted in frustration. “We are offering you gold and a pardon. What benefit is there in refusing?”

  “Well, he does plan on killing all of you.” The man with the chess piece spoke for the first time. “A good trade, really—forfeiting one knight to eliminate a knight, a bishop, and a king. But you offered the man the wrong incentive. Give him the princess.”

  “Give—what?” Saldur looked puzzled. “Who? Arista?”

  “You have another princess I’m not aware of?”

  “Arista?” Hadrian asked. “The Princess of Melengar is here?”

  “Yes, and they plan to execute her on Wintertide,” the man answered.

  Saldur looked confused. “Why would he care—”

  “Because Hadrian Blackwater and his partner, Royce Melborn, better known as Riyria, have been working as the royal protectors of Melengar. They’ve been instrumental in nearly every success either Alric or his sister has had over the last few years. I suspect they might even be friends with the royal family now. Well—as much as nobles will permit friendship with commoners.”

  Hadrian tried to keep his face neutral and his breathing balanced.

  They have Arista? How did they capture her? Was she hurt? How long have they been holding her? Who is this man?

  “You see, Your Grace, Mr. Blackwater is a romantic at heart. He likes his honor upheld and his quests worthy. Killing an innocent knight, particularly one as distinguished as Breckton, would be… well… wrong. Saving a damsel in distress, on the other hand, is an entirely different proposition.”

  “Would that be a problem?” Ethelred asked Saldur.

  The regent thought a moment. “The girl has proven resourceful and given us more than her fair share of trouble but… Medford is destroyed, the Nationalists are disbanded, and Drondil Fields won’t last much longer. I can’t see any way she could pose a serious threat to the empire.”

  “Well,” Ethelred said, addressing Hadrian, “do we have a deal?”

  Hadrian scrutinized the man at the chessboard. While he had never seen his face before, he felt as though he should recognize him.

  “No,” Hadrian said at length. “I want Degan Gaunt too.�
��

  “You see? He is the guardian!” Guy proclaimed. “Or he wishes to be. Obviously Esrahaddon told him Gaunt is the heir.”

  Ethelred looked concerned. “That’s out of the question. We’ve been after the Heir of Novron for years. We can’t let him go.”

  “Not just years—centuries,” Saldur corrected. He stared at Hadrian, his mouth slightly open, the tip of his tongue playing with his front teeth. “Esrahaddon is dead. You confirmed that, Guy?”

  The sentinel nodded. “I had his body dug up and then burned.”

  “And how much does Gaunt know? I’ve heard you’ve had several little chats with him.”

  Guy shook his head. “Not much, from what I’ve been able to determine. He insists Esrahaddon didn’t even tell him he’s the heir.”

  “But Hadrian will tell him,” Ethelred protested.

  “So?” Saldur replied. “What does that matter? The two of them can travel the countryside, proclaiming Gaunt’s heritage from the mountaintops. Who will listen? Modina serves us well. The people love and accept her as the unquestionable true Heir of Novron. She slew the Gilarabrywn, after all. If they try to convince people that Gaunt is the heir, they’ll get no support from the peasants or nobles. The concern was never Degan, per se, but rather what Esrahaddon could do by using him as a puppet. Right? With the wizard gone, Gaunt is no real threat.”

  “I’m not certain the Patriarch will approve,” Guy said.

  “The Patriarch isn’t here having a standoff with a Teshlor, is he?”

  “And what about Gaunt’s children, or grandchildren? Decades from now, they may attempt to regain their birthright. We have to concern ourselves with that.”

  “Why worry about problems that may never occur? We’re at a bit of an impasse, gentlemen. Why don’t we deal with our present issues and let the future take care of itself? What do you say, Lanis?”

  Ethelred nodded.

  Saldur turned to Hadrian. “If you succeed in killing Sir Breckton in the joust, we will release Degan Gaunt and Princess Arista into your custody on the condition that you leave Avryn and promise not to return. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  “So I’m free to go?”

  “Actually, no,” Saldur said. “You must understand our desire to keep this little arrangement between us. I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist that you stay in the palace until after your joust with Breckton. While you’re here, you will be under constant observation. If you attempt to escape or pass information, we will interpret that as a refusal on your part, and Princess Arista and Degan Gaunt will be burned at the stake.

  “Breckton’s death has to be seen as a Wintertide accident at best or the actions of an overambitious knight at worst. There can be no suspicions of a conspiracy. Commoners aren’t permitted to participate in the tournament, so we’ll need to transform you into a knight. You will stay in the knights’ quarters, participate in the games, attend feasts, and mingle with the aristocracy, as all knights do this time of year. We will assign a tutor to help you convince everyone that you’re noble so there will be no suspicions of wrongdoing. As of this moment, your only way out of this palace is to kill Sir Breckton.”

  CHAPTER 7

  DEEPER INTO DARKNESS

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Arista scratched her wrists, feeling the marks raised by the heavy iron during the regent’s interrogation. The itching had only recently started. With what little they fed her, she was surprised her body could heal itself at all. Lying about Edith Mon had been a gamble, and she had worried Saldur would return to her cell with the inquisitor, but three bowls of gruel had arrived since his visit, which led her to conclude he had believed her story.

  Whirl… splash!

  There it was again.

  The sound was faint and distant, echoing as if traveling through a long, hollow tube.

  Creak, click, creak, click, creak, click.

  The noise certainly came from a machine, a torture device of some kind. Perhaps it was a mechanical winch used to tear people to pieces or a turning wheel that submerged victims in putrid waters. Saldur had been wrong about her courage. Arista never had any doubt she would break if subjected to torture.

  The stone door to the prison rumbled as it opened. Footsteps echoed through the corridors. Once more, someone was coming when it was not time for food.

  Clip-clap, clip-clap.

  The shoes were different and not as rich as Saldur’s, but they were not poor either. The gait was decidedly military, but these feet were not shod in metal. They did not come for her. Instead, the footfalls passed by, stopping just past her cell. Keys jangled and a cell door opened.

  “Morning, Gaunt,” said a voice she found distantly familiar and vaguely unpleasant, like the memory of a bad dream.

  “What do you want, Guy?” Gaunt said.

  It’s him!

  “You and I need to have another talk,” Guy said.

  “I barely survived our last one.”

  “What did Esrahaddon tell you about the Horn of Gylindora?”

  Arista lifted her head and inched nearer the door.

  “I don’t know how many ways I can say it. He told me nothing.”

  “See, this is why you suffer in our little meetings. You need to be more cooperative. I can’t help you if you won’t help us. We need to find that horn and we need it now!”

  “Why don’t you just ask Esrahaddon?”

  “He’s dead.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Think. Surely he mentioned it to you. Time is running out. We had a team, but they are long overdue, and I doubt they’re coming back. We need that horn. In all your time together, do you really expect me to believe he never mentioned it?”

  “No, he never said anything about a damn horn!”

  “Either you’re becoming better at lying, or you’ve been telling the truth all along. I just can’t imagine he wouldn’t tell you anything unless… Everyone is so certain, but I’ve had a nagging suspicion for some time now.”

  “What’s that for?” Gaunt asked, his voice nervous—frightened.

  “Let’s call it a hunch. Now hold still.”

  Gaunt grunted, then cried out. “What are you doing?”

  “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”

  There was another pause.

  “I knew it!” Guy exclaimed. “This explains so much. While it doesn’t help either of us, at least it makes sense. The regents were fools to kill Esrahaddon.”

  “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, Gaunt. I believe you. He didn’t tell you anything. Why would he? The Patriarch will not be pleased. You won’t be questioned anymore. You can await your execution in peace.”

  The door closed again and the footfalls left the dungeon.

  Esrahaddon’s dying words came back to Arista.

  Find the Horn of Gylindora—need the heir to find it—buried with Novron in Percepliquis. Hurry—at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come—without the horn everyone dies.

  These words had brought Arista to Aquesta in the first place and were the reason she had risked her and Hilfred’s lives trying to save Gaunt. Now she once more tried to understand just what Esrahaddon had meant by them.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  The protruding bones of Arista’s hips, knees, and shoulders ached from bearing her weight on the stone. Her fingernails had become brittle and broken. Too exhausted to stand or sit upright, Arista struggled even to turn over. Despite her weakness, she found it difficult to sleep, and lay awake for hours, glaring into the dark. The stone Arista lay on sucked the warmth from her body. Shivering in a ball, she pushed herself up in the dark and struggled to gather the scattered bits of straw. Running her fingers over the rough-hewn granite, she swept together the old, brittle thatch and mounded it as best she could into a lumpy bed.

  Arista lay there imagining food. Not simply eating or touchin
g it, but immersing herself. In her daydreams, she bathed in cream and swam in apple juice. All her senses contributed and she longed for even the smell of bread or the feel of butter on her tongue. Arista was tortured with thoughts of roasted pig dripping with fruit glaze, beef served in a thick, dark gravy, and mountains of chicken, quail, and duck. Envisioning feasts stretching across long tables made her mouth water. Arista ate several meals a day in her mind. Even the vegetables, the common diet of peasants, were welcomed. Carrots, onions, and parsnips hovered in her mind like unappreciated treasures—and what she would give for a turnip.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  In the dark there was so much to regret and so much time to do so.

  What a mess she had made of a life that had started out filled with so much happiness. She recalled the days when her mother had been Queen of Melengar and music filled the halls. There had been the beautiful dress stitched from expensive Calian silk that she had received on her twelfth birthday. How the light had shimmered across its surface as she twirled before her mother’s swan mirror. The same year, her father had given her a Maranon-bred pony. Lenare had been so jealous watching as Arista chased Alric and Mauvin over the Galilin hills on horseback. She loved riding and feeling the wind in her hair. Those had been such good days. In her memory, they were always sunny and warm.

  Her world had changed forever the night the castle caught on fire. Her father had just appointed her uncle Braga as the Lord Chancellor of Melengar and celebrations ran late. Her mother tucked her into bed that night. Arista did not sleep in the tower then. She had a room across the hall from her parents, but she would never sleep in the royal wing again.

  In the middle of that night, she had awoken to a boy pulling her from bed. Frightened and confused, she jerked away, kicking and scratching as he tried to grab hold.

  “Please, Your Highness, you must come with me,” the boy begged.

  Outside her window, the elm tree burned like a torch, and her room flickered with its light. She heard a muffled roar from somewhere deep in the castle, and Arista found herself coughing from smoke.