Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “There’s not that many,” Amilia was saying to Sebastian. He was a ranking castle guard, but she could not recall his specific position. “Find room for them in the gallery for now.”

  He snapped a salute.

  “And have someone run and tell Ibis to get some food prepared; they look hungry.”

  Amilia turned back toward the castle doors when she made eye contact with Arista. She bit her lip in a sad expression. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say, and then walked away.

  Arista remained on the steps as the stable hands broke down the harnesses and the wagons emptied. A line of refugees filed past her, heading inside.

  “Melissa!” Arista called.

  “Your Highness.” Melissa curtsied.

  “Oh, forget that.” She ran down the remaining steps and gave the girl a hug. “I’m so happy you are all right.”

  “Are you the empress?” a little girl asked, holding on to Melissa’s hand.

  Arista had been away from Melengar for some time—only a few months short of a year—but this child could not have been Melissa’s. The girl had to be six or seven. She stood on the step beside Arista’s maid, bouncing on anxious feet and clutching a bundle to her chest with her free hand.

  “This is Mercy,” Melissa said, introducing her. “We found her on the way here.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “She’s an orphan.”

  There was something familiar about the little girl. Arista was certain she had seen her before. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not the empress. My name is Arista.”

  “Can I see the empress?”

  “I’m afraid not. The empress is very busy.”

  The child’s eager expression collapsed to one of disappointment, and her head drooped to look at her feet. “Arcadius said I would meet the empress when we got to Aquesta.”

  Arista studied her face a moment. “Arcadius? Oh yes, I remember you. We met last summer, wasn’t it?” Arista looked around the few remaining refugees but did not see her old teacher among them. Just then, she noticed the bundle move. “What have you got in there?”

  Before the girl could answer, the head of a raccoon poked out. “His name is Mr. Rings.”

  Arista bent down, and as she did, the robe brightened slightly—a soft pink glow. The girl’s eyes widened excitedly. “Magic!” she exclaimed. She reached out, then paused and looked up.

  “You can touch it,” Arista told her.

  “It’s slippery,” she said, rubbing the material between her fingers. “Arcadius could do magic too.”

  “Where is Arcadius?” The little girl did not answer as she shivered in the cold. “Oh, I’m sorry, you both must be freezing. Let’s get inside.”

  They stepped from the pale blue winter into the dark fire-lit hall. The howl of the wind silenced at the closing of the doors, which boomed, echoing in the vaulted chamber. The little girl looked up in awe at the flight of steps, the stone columns and arches. A number of refugees, wrapped in blankets, shivered as they waited for directions.

  “Your Highness,” Melissa whispered. “We found Mercy alone on a horse.”

  “Alone? But where is…” She hesitated, seeing Melissa’s downcast eyes.

  “Mercy hasn’t said much, but… well, I’m sorry.”

  The light of her robe dimmed and the color turned blue. “He’s dead?” First Esrahaddon, now Arcadius.

  “The elves burned Ghent,” Melissa said. “Sheridan and Ervanon are gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Burned.”

  “But the tower of Glenmorgan, the Crown Tower…”

  Melissa shook her head. “We joined with some people fleeing south. Several saw it fall. One said it looked like a child’s toy being toppled. Everything is gone.” Melissa’s eyes glistened. “They’re… unstoppable.”

  Arista expected tears, but all she felt was a numbness—too much loss all at once. She gently touched Mercy’s cheek.

  “Can I let Mr. Rings play in here?” Mercy asked.

  “What? Oh, I suppose, as long as you keep a sharp eye on him,” Arista said. “There’s an elkhound that might gobble him up if he goes too far.”

  She set the raccoon down. It sniffed the floor and cautiously skittered to the wall near the steps, where it began a systematic smelling along all the baseboards. Mercy followed and took a seat on the lowest step.

  “I can’t believe Arcadius is dead.”

  … at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come—without the horn everyone dies. The words of Esrahaddon echoed in Arista’s head. Words of warning mingled with words she still did not fully understand.

  Mercy yawned and rested her chin on her hands as Mr. Rings inched along the length of the step, exploring the world.

  “She’s tired,” Arista said. “I think they are handing out soup in the great hall. Would you like some soup, Mercy?”

  The girl looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Mr. Rings is hungry too, aren’t you, Mr. Rings?”

  The city was more beautiful than anything Arista had ever seen. White buildings, taller than the highest tree, taller than any building she had ever seen, rose up like slender fingers reaching for the sky. Sweeping pennants of greens and blues trailed from their pinnacles snapping in the breeze and shimmering like crystal. A road, broad enough for four carriages, straight as a maypole, and paved with smooth stone, led into the city. Upon it moved a multitude of wagons, carts, wains, coaches, and buggies. No wall or gate hindered the flow of traffic. No guardhouse gave them pause. The city lacked towers, barbican, and moat. It stood naked and beautiful—fearless and proud with only a pair of sculptured lions to intimidate visitors. The breadth of the city was hard to accept, hard for her to believe. It dominated three full hills and filled the vast valley where a gentle river flowed. It was a lovely place—and it was so familiar.

  Arista, you must remember.

  She felt the urgency, a tightness in her stomach, a chill across her back. Arista had to think; she needed to solve the puzzle. So little time remained, but such a sight as this would be impossible to forget. She could not have seen it before.

  You were here.

  She was not. Such a place as this could not even exist. This was a dream, an illusion.

  You must trust me. You were here. Look closely.

  Arista was shaking her head. It was ridiculous… and yet… something about the river, the way it curved near the base of the northern hill. Yes, the hill. The hill did look familiar. And the road—not so wide. It had been overgrown and hidden. She remembered finding it in the dark; she remembered wondering how it had come to be there.

  Yes, you were here. On the hill, look at the Aguanon.

  Arista did not understand.

  The northern hill, look at the temple on the crest.

  She spotted it. Yes, it was familiar, but it did not look the same in her memory. It was broken, fallen, mostly buried, but it was the same. Arista had been there and it frightened her to remember. Something bad had happened to her here. She had nearly died on this hill before the broken stones, amidst the splintered remains of shattered columns and breaching slabs. But she had not died. She did something on that hill, something awful, something that made her rip the dewy grass with her fists and beg Maribor for forgiveness.

  At last, Arista understood where she was, what she was seeing.

  This is it. This was my home. Go there, dig down, find the tomb, bring forth the horn. Do it, Arista! You must! There is no time left! Everyone will die! Everyone will die! EVERYONE WILL—

  Arista woke up screaming.

  CHAPTER 3

  PRISONS

  Get out of the way!” Hadrian shouted, his voice booming through the corridor. He stood just a few feet from the guard glaring at him, breathing on him. The two guards who watched from the end of the hall ran forward. He heard their chain mail jingling, their empty scabbards slapping their thighs. Both stopped short of sword’s length.

  “It’s the Teshlor,” one warned in a whisper.

  The soldier
who blocked the door stood his ground. Hadrian sensed the tension, the fear, the lack of confidence, but he also felt the courage and loyalty that refused to let him waver. He usually respected such qualities in a man, but not this time. This man was merely in his way.

  Behind him, a latch lifted and a door creaked. “What’s going on?” a befuddled woman’s voice asked.

  Hadrian glanced. It was Amilia. She shuffled forward, wiping her eyes and fumbling with the tie of her robe.

  “I need to speak to the empress,” he growled. “Tell them to stand down.”

  “It’s the middle of the night!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “You can’t see her. If you want, I’ll try to arrange an appointment in the morning, but I must tell you, Her Eminence is very busy. The news—”

  Hadrian’s hands rose and he took hold of his sword grips. The three soldiers tensed and all but the door guard took a step back. The man before him let his own hand settle slowly on his weapon but he did not pull it.

  This guard is a cool one, Hadrian thought, and took another half step closer, until their noses nearly touched. “Get out of my way.”

  “Hadrian? What are you doing?” This time it was Arista’s voice echoing down the hallway.

  “I’m seeking an audience with the empress,” he said through gritted teeth. He broke his stare to turn and see the princess trotting up the fifth-floor corridor. As always these days, she was dressed in Esrahaddon’s robe, which was a dull blue and, at the moment, only reflected the fire of the torches hanging in the wall sconces.

  “They have him locked up. They won’t even let me see him,” Hadrian told her.

  “Royce?”

  “He didn’t want to kidnap the empress, but he would have done anything to get Gwen back. They should give him a medal for killing Saldur and Merrick.” Hadrian sighed. “Gwen died in his arms and he wasn’t thinking straight. He never meant to harm Modina. I found out he’s being held in the north tower. I don’t think Modina even knows. So I’m going to tell her. Don’t try and stop me.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I have to see her as well.”

  “What for?”

  The princess looked uncomfortable. “I had a bad dream.”

  “What?”

  “No one is seeing the empress tonight!” Amilia declared. Six more guards arrived, trotting toward them. “I’ll turn out the whole castle regiment if I have to!”

  Hadrian glanced at the imperial secretary. “Do you think they’ll stop me?”

  “The door has a bolt on the inside,” the door guard said. “Even if you got past us, there’s half a foot of solid oak in your way.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Arista assured them. “But I should warn you, I can’t be responsible for wounds from flying splinters.” Her robe began to glow. It gave off a hazy gray light that slowly brightened, bleaching their faces and weakening the torch-fed shadows. Hadrian noticed a faint breeze in the corridor. A warm wind was rising, swirling around Arista like a tiny cyclone, fluttering the hem of her robe and the ends of her hair.

  Amilia stared, horrified.

  “Open the door, Amilia, or I’ll remove it.”

  Amilia looked as if she might scream.

  “Let them in, Gerald.” The voice emanated from the other side of the door.

  “Your Eminence?”

  “Yes, Gerald. It isn’t locked. Let them in.”

  The door guard lifted the latch and gave a push. The door swung inward, revealing the darkness of the imperial bedroom. Amilia said nothing. She was breathing faster than normal, her fists clenched at her sides. Hadrian entered first, with Arista behind, both followed by Amilia and Gerald.

  It was cold in the bedroom. The fireplace was dark and the only light came in through the open window in the far wall. To either side, sheer white curtains billowed inward, dancing in the faint moonlight like a pair of ghosts. Dressed in only her nightgown, Empress Modina rested on the floor, looking out at the stars. She sat on her knees, hands in her lap, her shoulders drawn up against the cold. Bare toes poked out from within the pool of white linen that gathered around her. Blonde hair fell down her back in tangles. She appeared much like the girl Hadrian had seen under the Tradesmen’s Arch in Colnora so long ago.

  “They arrested Royce,” Hadrian told her. “They’ve locked him in a cell in the tower.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?” he said incredulously. “How long have—”

  “I ordered it.”

  Hadrian stared at her, stunned. “Thrace—I mean, Modina,” he said softly. “You don’t understand. He never meant to harm you. He only did what he had to. He was trying to save the person he loved most in the world. How could you do this to him?”

  At last she turned. “Have you ever lost the one person in the world that meant everything to you? Did you watch them die, knowing it was your fault?”

  Hadrian said nothing.

  “When my father was killed,” she continued, looking back out the window, “I remember I found it almost too painful to breathe. I had not just lost my father; it was as if the whole world had died, but somehow I was left behind—alone. I just wanted it to end. I was tired. I wanted the pain to stop. If I had the chance—if they hadn’t taken me away, if they hadn’t locked me up, I would have thrown myself into the falls.” She turned and looked at Hadrian once more. “Believe me. He is well cared for—at least, as much as he will allow. Ibis makes him good meals that he doesn’t eat. Can you think of a better place for Royce right now?”

  Hadrian’s shoulders slumped; his arms fell loose at his sides. “Can I at least see him?”

  Modina thought a moment. “Yes, but only you. In his present state, he is a danger to anyone else. Still, I’m not sure he will hear you. You can visit him in the morning.” She leaned over so she could see Amilia. “Can you see to it that he has access?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Good,” the empress said, then looked at Arista. “Now what is it that you have that can’t wait until morning?”

  The Princess of Melengar stood shifting her feet, folding and refolding her hands before her, the robe a tranquil dark blue. She looked at the empress, then at Hadrian, Amilia, and even Gerald, who stood stiffly just inside the door. When her eyes once more returned to Modina, she said, “I think I know how to stop the elves.”

  Hadrian had just descended to the third floor, where several people were returning to their rooms now that all the shouting had died down. He caught a glimpse of Degan Gaunt. The ex-leader of the Nationalists stood in his nightshirt, peering up the steps, both curious and irritated. This was the first time Hadrian had seen the man since the two of them had been released from the dungeon. His neck and nose were narrow, and his lips were so thin they were almost nonexistent. There were creases across his brow and lines about his eyes that spoke of a hard life. Hadrian could tell by the way he carried his weight, and the motions of his body, that he felt awkward, lost in his own skin. He had a faraway look in his eyes, two days’ growth of beard, and a plume of hair that hung out of place. If he had to guess, Hadrian might have pegged him as a poor poet. He seemed nothing like the descendant of emperors.

  “What’s going on up there?” Gaunt asked a passing servant.

  “Someone looking to see the empress, sir. It’s over now.”

  Gaunt appeared dubious.

  This was not how Hadrian had planned on meeting Gaunt. Hadrian had waited, giving them both time to fully heal. After that, he hesitated out of nerves. He wanted their meeting to go well, to be perfect. This was not perfect, but now that they stood face to face he could hardly walk away.

  “Hello, Mr. Gaunt, I am Hadrian Blackwater,” he said, introducing himself with a bow.

  Degan Gaunt greeted him with his nose crinkled up as if he smelled something bad. He critically observed Hadrian, then frowned. “I thought you’d be taller.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hadrian apologized.

  “You’re supposed to be my servant, right
?” Gaunt asked. He began walking around Hadrian, orbiting him in slow, lazy circles, carrying a frown around with him.

  “Actually, I’m your bodyguard.”

  “How much am I expected to pay for this privilege?”

  “I’m not asking for money.”

  “No? What is it, then? You want me to make you a duke or something? Is that why you’re here? Boy, people come out of the woodwork when you’ve got money and power, I guess. I mean, I don’t even know you and here you come begging for privileges before I’m even crowned emperor.”

  “It’s not like that. You’re the Heir of Novron; I am the defender of the heir, just like my father before me. It’s a… tradition.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gaunt stood slouching, sucking on his teeth for a moment before jamming his pinky finger into his mouth to struggle with something caught between them. After a few minutes, he gave up.

  “Okay, here’s what I don’t get. I’m the heir. That makes me head of the empire, and head of the church. I’m even part god, if I get that right—great-great-grandson of Maribor or some kind of which or whether. So if I’m gonna be emperor and have a whole castle of guards and an army to protect me, what do I need you for?”

  Hadrian didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say. Gaunt was right. His role as bodyguard was only important so long as the heir was in hiding.

  “Well, guarding you is sort of a family tradition that I would hate to break,” he finally told Gaunt. The words sounded silly even to him.

  “You any good with a sword?”

  “Pretty good.”

  Gaunt scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, since you aren’t charging anything, I guess I’d be stupid not to take you on. Okay, you can be my servant.”

  “Bodyguard.”

  “Whatever.” Gaunt waved at him as if shooing away a pesky fly. “I’m going back to bed. You can wait outside my door and do your guard thing if you like.”

  Gaunt returned to his room and Hadrian waited outside, feeling decidedly foolish. That had not gone as well as he had hoped. He failed to impress Gaunt, and he had to admit, Gaunt did nothing to impress him. He did not know what exactly he had expected. Maybe he thought Gaunt would be the embodiment of the noble poor. A man of staggering integrity, a beacon of enlightenment, who had grown out of the earth’s salt and struggled to the pinnacle. Sure, his standards were high, but after all, Degan was supposed to be part god. Instead, just being near him made Hadrian want to go bathe.