Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

In addition to the sparks, there was heat. It felt as if Hadrian stood before his father’s forge. He could feel it baking his clothes and flushing his skin. With the heat came a new smell; far worse than the musty ammonia scent, this was thick and overpowering—the gagging stench of burning hair. As they watched, the pile before them began to radiate light, a faint red glow, like embers in a neglected fireplace. Then spontaneously flames caught, flaring here and there, throwing tall demonic shadows dancing on the walls.

  “All right! All right!” Alric shouted. “That’s enough! That’s enough! You’re burning my face off!”

  The flames subsided, the red glow faded, and the soaring sparks died. Arista’s robe once more glowed, but fainter and with a bluish tint. Her shoulders slumped and her legs wavered. Hadrian grabbed hold of her by the elbow and waist.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Did it work? Is anyone hurt?” she asked, turning to look.

  “A little seared, perhaps,” he said.

  Royce ventured a foot out onto the pile. There was an audible crunch, as if he were stepping on eggshells. The surface of the mound looked dark and glassy. Nothing moved anymore.

  Royce took two steps, then returned promptly to the island. “Still a tad warm. We might want to wait a bit.”

  “How did you do that?” Degan asked, astonished, while at the same time shifting away from her as far as the tiny perch allowed.

  “She’s a witch,” Magnus said.

  “She’s not a witch!” In the otherwise silent cave, the volume of his own voice embarrassed Hadrian. It echoed twice. He noticed Alric looking at him, surprised, and he felt suddenly crowded. He stepped off and started walking.

  He felt the surface of the pile crackle beneath his weight, the heat under his boots as if he were striding across sunbaked sand. He shuffled down the side of the pile, kicking the roasted remains of crabs aside. Light bobbed behind him and he knew at least Arista followed. They reached the crack. It was larger than it had seemed at a distance, and he was able to pass through without so much as ducking.

  CHAPTER 9

  WAR NEWS

  The two girls sprinted along the parapet, their dark winter cloaks waving in their wake. Mercy jerked to a halt and Allie nearly ran her down. They bumped and both giggled into the cold wind. The sky was as gray as the castle walls they stood on, their cheeks a brilliant red from the cold, but they were oblivious to such things.

  Mercy got to her hands and knees, and crawling between the merlons, she peered down. Huge blocks of unevenly colored stone formed a twenty-foot-high wall, the squares seeming to diminish in size the farther away they were. At the bottom lay a street, where dozens of people walked, rode, or pushed carts. The sight made Mercy’s stomach rise, and her hands felt so weak that squeezing anything caused a tickling sensation. Still, it was wonderful to see the world from so high, to see the roofs of houses and the patterns formed by streets. With the snow, almost everything was white, but there were splashes of color: the side of a red barn on a distant hill, the three-story building painted sky blue, the bronze patches of road where snow retreated before the heat of traffic. Mercy had never seen a city before, much less one from this height. Being on the battlements of the palace made her feel as if she were the empress of the world, or at least a flying bird—both of equal delight in her mind.

  “He’s not down there!” Allie shouted, her voice buffeted by the wind so that her words came to Mercy as if from miles away. “He doesn’t have wings!”

  Mercy crawled back out of the blocks of stone and, bracing her back against the battlement, paused to catch her breath.

  Allie was standing before her—grinning madly, her hood off, dark hair flying in the wind. Mercy hardly noticed Allie’s ears, or the odd way her eyes narrowed, anymore. Mercy had been fascinated by her that first day, when they had met in the dining hall. She had wandered away from the Pickerings’ table to get a closer look at the strange elven girl. Allie had been just as interested in Mr. Rings, and from then on the two were inseparable. Allie was her best friend—even better than Mr. Rings, for although Mercy confided all her secrets to each, Allie could understand.

  Allie sympathized when Mercy told her how Arcadius had refused to let her roam the forests near the university. She had suffered equally from similar hardships, such as when her father refused to let her roam their home city of Colnora. Both girls spent long nights by candlelight sharing horror stories of their adventure-impoverished childhoods, rendered such by overprotective guardians who refused to see the necessity of finding tadpoles or obtaining the twisted metal the tinsmith threw away.

  They tried on each other’s clothes. Allie’s wardrobe consisted of boyish outfits, mostly tunics and trousers, all faded and worn, with holes in the knees and elbows, but Mercy found them marvelous. They were much easier to wear than dresses when climbing trees. Allie had very few clothes compared to the many dresses, gowns, and cloaks Mercy used to have at the university, but of course, now Mercy had only the one outfit Miranda had dressed her in the day they had fled Sheridan. In the end, all they managed to do was trade cloaks. Mercy’s was thicker and warmer, but she liked how Allie’s old tattered wrap made her look dashing, like some wild hero.

  Allie let Mercy play with the spare sextant her father had given her, showing her how to determine their position by the stars. In return, Mercy let Allie play with Mr. Rings, but began regretting the decision now that he climbed on Allie’s shoulder more often than her own. Late at night she would scold the raccoon for his disloyalty, but he only chattered back. She was not at all certain he understood the gravity of the problem.

  “There!” Allie shouted, pointing farther up the parapet, where Mercy spotted the raccoon’s tiny face peering at them from around the corner. The two bolted after him. The face vanished, a ringed tail flashed and was gone.

  The two slid on the snow as they rounded the corner. They were at the front of the palace now, above the great gates. On the outside was a large square, where vendors sold merchandise from carts and barkers shouted about the best leather, the slowest-burning candles, and the bargain price of honey. On the inside lay the castle courtyard and, beyond it, the tall imposing keep, rising as a portly tower with numerous windows.

  The raccoon was nowhere to be seen.

  “More tracks!” Mercy cried dramatically. “The fool leaves a trail!”

  Off they ran once more, following the tiny hand-shaped imprints in the snow.

  “He went down the tower stairs, lasses,” the turret guard informed them as they raced by. Mercy only glanced at him. He was huge, as all the guards were, wearing his silver helm and layers of dark wool, and holding a spear. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

  “There!” Allie shouted, pointing across the courtyard at a dark shadow darting under a delivery cart.

  They scrambled down the steps, bounded to the bottom, and raced across the ward. They caught up to him when he neared the old garden. The two split up like hunters driving their quarry. Allie blocked Mr. Rings’s path, forcing him toward Mercy, who was closing in. At the last minute, Mr. Rings fled toward the woodpile outside the kitchen. He easily scaled the stacked logs and scampered through a window, left open a crack to vent smoke.

  “Crafty villain!” Allie cursed.

  “You can’t escape!” Mercy shouted.

  Mercy and Allie entered the yard door to the kitchen and raced through the scullery, startling the servants, one of whom dropped a large pan, which rang like a gong. Shouts and curses echoed behind them as they sped up the stairs, past the linen storeroom, and into the great hall, where Mercy finally made a spectacular diving grab and caught Mr. Rings by the back foot. His tiny claws skittered over the polished floor, but to no avail. She got a better grip and pulled him to her.

  “Gotcha!” she proclaimed, lying on her back, hugging the raccoon and panting for breath. “It’s the gallows for you!”

  “A-hem.”

  Mercy heard the sound and instantly knew she was in
trouble.

  She rolled over and, looking up, saw a woman glaring down, her arms folded and a stern look across her face. She wore a brilliant black gown decorated with precious stones that twinkled like stars. At the nearby table, another woman and eight men with grim faces stared at them.

  “I don’t recall inviting you to this meeting,” the woman told Mercy. “Or you,” she said to Allie, who had tumbled in behind Mercy. She then focused on Mr. Rings. “And I know I didn’t invite you.”

  “Forgive us, Your Eminence,” the two door guards said in near unison as they rushed forward, the foremost taking a rough hold of Allie. The second guard grabbed for Mercy, who scrambled to her feet, frightened.

  The lady raised a delicate hand, bending it slightly at the wrist, and instantly the guard halted.

  “You are forgiven,” she told him. “Let her go.”

  The guard holding Allie obeyed and the little girl took a step away, looking at him warily.

  “You’re the empress?” Mercy asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. “My name is Modina.”

  “I’m Mercy.”

  “I know. Allie has told me all about you. And this is Mr. Rings, correct?” the empress asked, reaching out a hand and stroking the raccoon’s head. Mr. Rings tilted his snout down in a shy gesture as he was awkwardly held to Mercy’s chest, his belly exposed. “Is he the one causing all the trouble?”

  “It’s not his fault,” Mercy blurted out. “We were just playing a game. Mr. Rings was the despicable thief who stole the crown jewels and me and Allie were on the hunt tracking him down to face the axman’s justice. Mr. Rings just happens to be a really good thief.”

  “I see, but alas, we are in the middle of a very important meeting that does not include thieves, axmen, or little girls.” She focused on Mr. Rings, as if she were speaking only to him. “And raccoons, no matter how cute, are not allowed. If you two would be so kind as to take him back to the kitchen and ask Mr. Thinly to make him a plate of something, perhaps that will keep him out of mischief. See if he can also find some sweetmeats for the two of you—toffee, perhaps? And while he is being so kind, you might return the favor by asking if there are any chores you can do for him.”

  Mercy was nodding even before she finished.

  “Away with you, then,” she said, and the two sprinted back the way they had come, exchanging wide-eyed looks of relief.

  Modina watched them race out, then turned back to the council. She did not resume her seat but preferred to walk, taking slow steps, circling the long table where her ministers and knights waited. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire and the click of her shoes. She walked more for effect than from need. As empress, she had discovered the power and necessity of appearances.

  The dress was an outward expression of this. Stiff, tight, restraining, noisy, and generally uncomfortable, it was nonetheless impressive. She noticed the expressions of awe in the eyes of all who beheld her. Awe begot respect; respect begot confidence; confidence begot courage, and she needed her people to be brave. She needed them to cast aside their doubts even in the face of a terrible growing shadow. She needed them to believe in the wisdom of a young woman even when faced with annihilation.

  The men at the table were not fools. They would not be there if she thought them so. They were practical, clear-thinking, war-hardened leaders. Such romantic notions as the infallibility of a daughter of Novron did not impress them. The count of spears and a calculated plan were more to their liking. Still, even such efforts she knew to be futile. Warriors on a battlefield and the belief in a demigod empress would stand equal chance of saving them now. They had but one hope and—as a goddess, or as a thoughtful ruler—she needed their blind acceptance to raise the payment needed to buy time. So she walked with her head bowed, her fingers tapping her lower lip in apparent contemplation, giving the impression that she calculated the number of swords and shields, their positions at the choke points, the river dams set to be broken, the bridges set to be destroyed, the units of cavalry, the state of preparedness of the reserve battalions. More than anything she did not wish to appear to these old men as a flighty girl who held no understanding of the weight she bore.

  She paused, looking at the fire, leaving her back to the table. “You are certain, then?” she asked.

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” Sir Breckton replied. “A beacon is burning.”

  “But only one?”

  “We know that the elves are capable of swiftness and stealth. It’s why we had so many signal patrols.”

  “Still, only one?”

  “It’s no accident.”

  “No, of course not,” she said, pivoting on a heel so that her mantle swept gracefully around. “And I do not doubt it now, but it shows something of their ability. Out of twenty-four, only one man had enough time to lay a torch to a pile of oiled wood.” She sighed. “They have crossed the Galewyr, then. Trent has fallen. Very well, send orders to clear the countryside, evacuate the towns and villages, and break the dams and bridges. Seal us off from the rest of the world—except for the southern pass. That we leave open for the princess. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The meeting was over and the council stood. Breckton turned to Modina. “I will leave immediately to personally take charge of destroying the bridges in Colnora.”

  She nodded and noticed Amilia wince at his words. “Sir Breckton, I hope you do not take offense, but I would like to have my secretary accompany you so that she can report to me. I don’t want to take you away from your duties just to keep me informed.”

  Both of them looked shocked. “But, Your Eminence, I will be riding north—there is risk—”

  “I will leave it to her, then. Amilia? Will you go?”

  She nodded. “As my empress wishes,” she said solemnly, as if this were a terrible hardship that she would endure only for the sake of the empire. Amilia, however, was not a very good actress.

  “As you will be passing by Tarin Vale, see that you check on Amilia’s family, and ensure they are sent here to the palace.” This time Amilia lit up with genuine surprise.

  “As you wish,” Sir Breckton said with a bow.

  Amilia said nothing but reached out and squeezed Modina’s hand as she passed her.

  “One more thing,” Modina said. “See to it that the man—the one that lit the fire—see that he receives a commendation of some kind. He should be rewarded.”

  “I will indeed, Your Eminence.”

  Servants entered the hall carrying plates but pulled up short with guilty looks.

  “No, no, come in.” She waved them forward. “Chancellor, you and I will continue in my office to allow these people to set up for the evening meal.”

  Outside the great hall, the corridors and public rooms buzzed with dozens of people walking, working, or just gathering to talk. She liked it this way; the castle felt alive. For so long she had lived within a cold hollow shell—a ghost within a mausoleum. But now, packed tightly with guests, all fighting for access to washbasins and seats at tables, and arguing over snoring and blanket stealing, it felt like a home. At times, she could almost imagine they were all relatives arriving as guests for a grand party or, perhaps, given the lingering mood, a funeral. She had never met most of those she saw, but they were family now. They were all family now.

  Guards escorted them through the corridor and up the central stairs. Since the Royce Incident, as Breckton called it, he insisted she have bodyguards at all times. They ordered people in gruff tones to step back. “Empress!” they would call out, and crowds would gasp, look around nervously, dividing and bowing. She liked to smile and wave as she passed, but on the stairs she had to hold the hem of her dress. The dress, for all its expense, was no end of problems and she looked forward to the end of the day, when she could retire to her room and slip into her linen nightgown.

  She half considered going there now. Nimbus would not mind. He had seen her in it hundreds of times, and while he was a shining example of protocol h
imself, he was silent to the foibles she made. As Modina climbed the stairs, it occurred to her she would have no more reservation about changing her clothes in front of him than she would about doing so in front of Red or Amilia, as if he were a doctor or priest.

  They entered what had once been Saldur’s office. She had had most of the church paraphernalia and personal items removed. The chambermaids might even have scrubbed it—as the room did smell better.

  The sun was setting outside the window, the last of the light quickly fading.

  “How long has it been?” she asked Nimbus as he closed the office door.

  “Only two days, Your Eminence,” Nimbus replied.

  “It seems so much longer. They must have reached Amberton Lee by now, right?”

  “Yes, I should think so.”

  “I should have sent riders with them to report back. I don’t like this waiting. Waiting to hear from them, waiting to hear the trumpet blare of invasion.” She looked out at the dying light. “When they seal the northern pass and destroy the bridges in Colnora, the only way in or out of this city will be by sea or the southern gate. Do you think I should put more ships out to guard against a water invasion? We are vulnerable to that.”

  “It’s possible, yet unlikely. I’ve never heard of elves being ones for sea going. I don’t believe they brought ships with them across Dunmore. Breckton destroyed the Melengar fleet and—”

  “What about Trent? They might have gone there for the ships.”

  The slender man nodded his powdered-wig-covered head. “Except that there was no need at that time. There will be no need until your men close the roads. Usually one doesn’t go to great lengths unless one has to, and so far—”

  “They have had an easy time of killing us. Will it be any harder for them here?”

  “I think so,” Nimbus said. “Unlike the others, we have had time to prepare.”

  “But will it be enough?”

  “Against any human army we would be impregnable, but…”