Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Mercy,” Miranda said, “you need to ride. Ride over there—ride to the campfires. Beg for help. Go.”

  With her last bit of strength, she struck the horse’s flank. The animal bolted forward. The saddle ripped from Miranda’s hands and she fell once more into the snow. Lying on her back, she listened to the sound of the horse as it raced away.

  “Get on your—” she heard Guy shout, but it was too late. Arcadius had opened the satchel.

  Even from hundreds of feet away Miranda felt the earth shake from the explosion. An instant later, a gust of wind threw stinging snow against her face as a cloud billowed into the morning sky. Arcadius, and the man who wrestled with him, died instantly. Guy was blown off his feet. The remaining horses scattered.

  As the snowy cloud settled, Miranda stared up at the brightening sky, at the rising dawn. She was not cold anymore. The pain in her side was going away, growing numb along with her legs and hands. She felt a breeze cross her cheek and noticed her legs and waist were wet, her dress soaked through. She could taste iron on her tongue. Breathing became difficult—as if she were drowning.

  Guy was still alive. She heard him cursing the old man and calling to the horses as if they were disobedient dogs. The crunch of snow, the rub of leather, then the sound of hooves galloping away.

  She was alone in the silence of the cold winter’s dawn.

  It was quiet. Peaceful.

  “Dear Maribor, hear me,” she prayed aloud to the brightening sky. “Oh Father of Novron, creator of men.” She took her last breath and with it said, “Take care of your only daughter.”

  Alenda Lanaklin crept out of her tent into the brisk morning air. She wore her thickest wool dress and two layers of fur, but still she shivered. The sun was just rising—a cold milky haze in the soup of a heavy winter sky. The clouds had lingered for more than a week and she wondered if she would ever see the sun’s bright face again.

  Alenda stood on the packed snow, looking around at the dozens of tents pitched among the pine forest’s eaves. Campfires burned in blackened snow pits, creating gray tails of smoke that wagged with the wind. Among them wandered figures, hooded and bundled such that it should have been difficult to identify male from female. Yet there was no such dilemma—they were all women. The camp was filled with them as well as children and the elderly. People walked with bowed heads, picking their way carefully through the trampled snow.

  Everything appeared so different in the light, so quiet, so still. The previous night had been a terror of fire, screams, and a flight along the Westfield road. They had paused only briefly to take a head count before pushing on. Alenda had been so exhausted that she barely recalled the camp being set.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Emily greeted her from beneath a blanket, which was wrapped over her cloak. Her words lacked their normal cheerfulness. Alenda’s maid had always been bright and playful in the morning. Now she stood with somber diligence, her reddened hands quivering, her jaw shaking with the chill.

  “Is it, Emmy?” Alenda cast another look around. “How can you tell?”

  “Let’s find you some breakfast. Something warm will make you feel better.”

  “My father and brothers are dead,” Alenda replied. “The world is ending. How can breakfast possibly help?”

  “I don’t know, my lady, but we must try. It’s what your father wanted—for you to survive, I mean. It’s why he stayed behind, isn’t it?”

  A loud boom, like a crack of thunder, echoed from the north. Every head turned to look out across the snowy fields. Every face terrified that the end had arrived at last.

  Reaching the center of the camp, Alenda found Belinda Pickering; her daughter, Lenare; old Julian, Melengar’s lord high chamberlain; and Lord Valin, the party’s sole protector. The elderly knight had led them through the chaos the night before. Among them, they composed the last vestiges of the royal court, at least those still in Melengar. King Alric was in Aquesta lending a hand in the brief civil war and saving his sister, Arista, from execution. It was to him they now fled.

  “We have no idea, but it is foolish to stay any longer,” Lord Valin was saying.

  “Yes, I agree,” Belinda replied.

  Lord Valin turned to a young boy. “Send word to rouse everyone. We will break camp immediately.”

  “Emmy,” Alenda said, turning to her maid. “Run back and pack our things.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Emily curtsied and headed toward their tent.

  “What was that sound?” Alenda asked Lenare, who only shrugged, her face frightened.

  Lenare Pickering was lovely, as always. Despite the horrors, the flight, and the primitive condition of the camp, she was radiant. Even disheveled in a hastily grabbed cloak, with her blonde hair spilling out of her hood, she remained stunning, just as a sleeping baby is always precious. She had gotten this blessing from her mother. Just as the Pickering men were renowned for their swordsmanship, so too were the Pickering women celebrated for their beauty. Lenare’s mother, Belinda, was famous for it.

  All that was over now. What had been constants only the day before were now lost beyond a gulf too wide to clearly see across, although at times it appeared that Lenare tried. Alenda often had seen her staring north at the horizon with a look somewhere between desperation and remorse, searching for ghosts.

  In her arms, Lenare still held her father’s legendary sword. The count had handed it to her, begging that she deliver it safely to her brother Mauvin. Then he had kissed each member of his family before returning to the line where Alenda’s own father and brothers waited with the rest of the army. Since then, Lenare had never set the burden down. She had wrapped it in a dark wool blanket and bound it with a silk ribbon. Throughout the harrowing escape, she had hugged the long bundle to her breast, at times using it to wipe away tears.

  “If we push hard today, we might make Colnora by sunset,” Lord Valin told them. “Assuming the weather improves.” The old knight glared up at the sky as if it alone were their adversary.

  “Lord Julian,” Belinda said. “The relics… the scepter and seal—”

  “They are all safe, my lady,” the ancient chamberlain replied. “Loaded in the wagons. The kingdom is intact, save for the land itself.” The old man looked back in the direction of the strange sound, toward the banks of the Galewyr River and the bridge they had crossed the night before.

  “Will they help us in Colnora?” Belinda asked. “We haven’t much food.”

  “If news has reached them of King Alric’s part in freeing the empress, they should be willing,” Lord Valin said. “Even if it has not, Colnora is a merchant city, and merchants thrive on profit, not chivalry.”

  “I have some jewelry,” Belinda informed him. “If needs be, you can sell what I have for…” The countess paused as she noticed Julian still staring back at the bridge.

  Others soon lifted their gazes, and finally Alenda looked up to see the approach of a rider.

  “Is it…?” Lenare began.

  “It’s a child,” Belinda said.

  Alenda quickly realized she was right. A little girl raced at them, clutching to the back of the sweat-soaked horse. Her hood had blown back, revealing long dark hair and rosy cheeks. She was about six years old, and just as she clutched the horse, a raccoon held fast to her. They were an odd pair to be alone on the road, but Alenda reminded herself that “normal” no longer existed. If she should see a bear in a feather cap riding a chicken, that too might be normal now.

  The horse entered the camp and Lord Valin grabbed the bit, forcing the animal and rider to a stop.

  “Are you all right, honey?” Belinda asked.

  “There’s blood on the saddle,” Lord Valin noted.

  “Are you hurt?” the countess asked the child. “Where are your parents?”

  The girl shivered and blinked but said nothing. Her little fists still clutched the horse’s reins.

  “She’s cold as ice,” Belinda said, touching the child’s cheek. “Help
me get her down.”

  “What’s your name?” Alenda asked.

  The girl remained mute. Deprived of her horse, she turned to hugging the raccoon.

  “Another rider,” Lord Valin announced.

  Alenda looked up to see a man crossing the bridge and wheeling toward them.

  The rider charged into the camp and threw back his hood, revealing long black hair, pale skin, and intense eyes. He bore a narrow mustache and a short beard trimmed to a fine point. He glared at them until he spotted the girl.

  “There!” he said, pointing. “Give her to me at once.”

  The child cried out in fear, shaking her head.

  “No!” Belinda shouted, and pressed the girl into Alenda’s hands.

  “My lady,” Lord Valin said. “If the child is his—”

  “This child does not belong to him,” the countess declared, her tone hateful.

  “I am a Sentinel of Nyphron,” the man shouted so all could hear. “This child is claimed for the church. You will hand her over now. Any who oppose me will die.”

  “I know very well who you are, Luis Guy,” Belinda said, seething. “I will not provide you with any more children to murder.”

  The sentinel peered at her. “Countess Pickering?” He studied the camp with renewed interest. “Where is your husband? Where is your fugitive son?”

  “I am no fugitive,” Denek said as he came forward. Belinda’s youngest had recently turned thirteen and was growing tall and lanky. He was well on his way to imitating his older brothers.

  “He means Mauvin,” Belinda explained. “This is the man who murdered Fanen.”

  “Again I ask you,” Guy pressed. “Where is your husband?”

  “He is dead and Mauvin is well beyond your reach.”

  The sentinel looked out over the crowd and then down at Lord Valin. “And he has left you poor protection. Now, hand over the child.”

  “I will not,” Belinda said.

  Guy dismounted and stepped forward to face Lord Valin. “Hand over the child or I will be forced to take her.”

  The old knight looked to Belinda, whose face remained hateful. “My lady does not wish it, and I shall defend her decision.” The old man drew his sword. “You will leave now.”

  Alenda jumped at the sound of steel as Guy drew his own sword and lunged. In less than an instant, Lord Valin was clutching his bleeding side, his sword arm wavering. With a shake of his head, the sentinel slapped the old man’s blade away and stabbed him through the neck.

  Guy advanced toward the girl with a terrifying fire in his eyes. Before he could cross the distance, Belinda stepped between them.

  “I do not make a habit of killing women,” Guy told her. “But nothing will keep me from this prize.”

  “What do you want her for?”

  “As you said, to kill her. I will take the child to the Patriarch and then she must die, by my hands.”

  “Never.”

  “You cannot stop me. Look around. You have only women and children. You have no one to fight for you. Give me the child!”

  “Mother?” Lenare said softly. “He is right. There is no one else. Please.”

  “Mother, let me,” Denek pleaded.

  “No. You are still too young. Your sister is right. There is no one else.” The countess nodded toward her daughter.

  “I am pleased to see someone who—” Guy stopped as Lenare stepped forward. She slipped off her cloak and untied the bundle, revealing the sword of her father, which she drew forth and held before her. The blade caught the hazy winter light, pulling it in and casting it back in a sharp brilliance.

  Puzzled, Guy looked at her for a moment. “What is this?”

  “You killed my brother,” Lenare said.

  Guy looked to Belinda. “You’re not serious.”

  “Just this once, Lenare,” Belinda told her daughter.

  “You would have your daughter die for this child? If I must kill all your children, I will.”

  Alenda watched, terrified, as everyone backed away, leaving a circle around Sentinel Guy and Lenare. A ripping wind shuddered the canvas of the tents and threw Lenare’s golden hair back. Standing alone in the snow, dressed in her white traveling clothes and holding the rapier, she appeared as a mythical creature, a fairy queen or goddess—beautiful in her elegance.

  With a scowl, Luis Guy lunged, and with surprising speed and grace, Lenare slapped the attack away. Her father’s sword sang with the contact.

  “You’ve handled a blade before,” Guy said, surprised.

  “I am a Pickering.”

  He swung at her. She blocked. He swiped. She parried. Then Lenare slashed and cut Guy across the cheek.

  “Lenare,” her mother said with a stern tone. “Don’t play games.”

  Guy paused, holding a hand to his bleeding face.

  “He killed Fanen, Mother,” Lenare said coldly. “He should be made to suffer. He should be made an example.”

  “No,” Belinda said. “It’s not our way. Your father wouldn’t approve. You know that. Just finish it.”

  “What is this?” Guy demanded, but there was a hesitation in his voice. “You’re a woman.”

  “I told you—I am a Pickering and you killed my brother.”

  Guy began to raise his sword.

  Lenare stepped and lunged. The thin rapier pierced the man’s heart and was withdrawn before he finished his stroke.

  Luis Guy fell dead, facedown in the blood-soaked snow.

  CHAPTER 2

  NIGHTMARES

  Arista woke up screaming. Her body trembled; her stomach suffered from a sinking sensation—the remaining residue of a dream she could not remember. She sat up, her left hand crawling to her chest, where she felt the thundering of her heart. It was pounding so hard, so fast, beating against her ribs as if needing to escape. She tried to remember. She could only recall brief snippets, tiny bits that appeared to be disjointed and unrelated. The one constant was Esrahaddon, his voice so distant and weak she could never hear what he said.

  Her thin linen nightgown clung to her skin, soaked with sweat. Her bedsheets, stripped from the mattress, spilled to the floor. The quilt, embroidered with designs of spring flowers, lay waded up nearly on the other side of the room. Esrahaddon’s robe, however, rested neatly next to her, giving off a faint blue radiance. The garment appeared as if a maid had prepared it for her morning dressing. Arista’s hand was touching it.

  How is it on the bed? Arista looked at the wardrobe. The door she remembered closing hung open, and a chill ran through her. She was alone.

  A soft knock at the door startled her.

  “Arista?” Alric’s voice came from the other side.

  She threw the robe around her shoulders and immediately felt warmer, safer. “Come in,” she called.

  Her brother opened the door and peered in, holding a candle a bit above his head. Dressed in a burgundy robe, he had a thick baldric buckled around his waist, the Sword of Essendon hanging at his side. The weapon was huge, and as he entered, Alric used one hand to tilt it up to keep the tip from dragging on the floor. The sight reminded her of the night their father was murdered—the night Alric became king.

  “I heard you cry out. Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes searching the room and settling on the glowing robe.

  “I’m fine—just a nightmare.”

  “Another one?” He sighed. “You know, it might help if you didn’t sleep in that thing.” He gestured toward the robe. “Sleeping in a dead man’s clothes… it’s creepy—sort of sick, really. Don’t forget he was a wizard. That thing could be—well, I’ll just say it—it is enchanted. I’m sure it is responsible. Do you want to talk about your dream?”

  “I don’t remember much. Like all the others, I just… I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. There’s this sense of urgency that’s overwhelming. I feel this need to find something—that if I don’t, I’ll die. I always wake up terrified, like I am walking off a cliff and don’t see it.”

>   “Can I get you something?” he asked. “Water? Tea? Soup?”

  “Soup? Where will you get soup in the middle of the night?”

  He shrugged. “I just thought I’d ask. You don’t have to beat me up for it. I hear you scream, I jump out of bed and rush to your door, I offer to play servant for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

  “I’m sorry.” She frowned playfully but meant what she said. Having him there did chase the shadows away and took her mind off the wardrobe. She patted her bed. “Sit down.”

  Alric hesitated, then set the candle on her nightstand and took a seat beside her. “What happened to the sheets and quilt? Looks like you were wrestling.”

  “Maybe I was. I can’t remember.”

  “You look terrible,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  He sighed.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you’re still my little brother and this new protective side of yours is hard to get used to. Remember when I fell off Tamarisk and broke my ankle? It hurt so bad that I couldn’t see straight. When I asked you to get help, you just stood there laughing and pointing.”

  “I was twelve.”

  “You were a brat.”

  He frowned at her.

  “But you’re not anymore.” She took his hand and cupped it in both of hers. “Thank you for checking on me. You even wore your sword.”

  Alric looked down. “I didn’t know what beast or scoundrel might be attacking the princess. I had to come prepared to do battle.”

  “Can you even draw that thing?”

  He frowned at her again. “Oh, quit it, will you? They say I fought masterfully in the Battle of Medford.”

  “Masterfully?”

  He struggled to stop himself from smiling. “Yes, some might even say heroically. In fact, I believe some did say heroically.”

  “You’ve watched that silly play too many times.”

  “It’s good theater, and I like to support the arts.”

  “The arts.” She rolled her eyes. “You just like it because it makes all the girls swoon and you love all the attention.”