Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “What if it’s locked?”

  “It’s not. I saw it when I was in there getting Gaunt. It’s standing open. Hadrian, you know I’m right. Besides, it’s not just you I’m thinking about. There are five other people who will die unless I do this—granted their lives don’t mean as much to me, but I know it matters to you.”

  “And you’re sure you want to do this?”

  “I want to do it for Gwen. Hadrian, what else do I have to live for? The only thing I have is to fulfill her last request. That’s all. After I do that…”

  Hadrian closed his eyes and rapped his skull against the wall behind him, creating a dull thud. There was a pressure behind his eyes, a throbbing in his head.

  “You know I’m right,” Royce said.

  “What do you want? You want me to say, ‘Hooray, thanks, pal, for saving us’?”

  “I don’t want anything, except for you to live—you and the rest of them—even Magnus and Gaunt. It’s what I can give you and the only thing I can give her. If I manage to save you, and you do get this stupid horn and it saves everyone, it will make her death mean something—mine too, I suppose. That’s more than either of us could have hoped for. A prostitute and a no-good thief saving the world—it’s not a bad epitaph. You can see I’m right, can’t you?”

  Hadrian let his head rest and stared out at the black. “Don’t you get tired of always being right?”

  “We made a good team, didn’t we?” Royce replied. “Arcadius wasn’t such a fool putting us together after all.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Watch it. I’m about to die to save your ass, so be nice.”

  “Thanks for that, by the way.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ll be happy to be rid of me. You can go back to blacksmithing in Hintindar and live a quiet happy life. Do me a favor and marry some pretty farm girl and train your son to beat the crap out of imperial knights.”

  “Sure,” Hadrian told him. “And with any luck he’ll make friends with a cynical burglar who’ll do nothing but torment him.”

  “With any luck.”

  “Yeah,” Hadrian said. “With any luck.”

  The two sat in silence for a moment. In the room, Hadrian could hear Gaunt snoring.

  “We should do this sooner than later,” Royce told him. “Just in case the air is running out and while you still have plenty of water and food to escape with, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You know, when I’m dead, and it’s dead—assuming there’s anything left of me, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you laid me to rest in the tomb of Novron. Can’t ask for better accommodations, really, and tell Myron to say something nice, something poetic, something about Gwen and me.”

  “What? No!” Arista shouted.

  She was standing against the wall, a blanket pulled around her shoulders, her fingers white where they clutched the dark wool. Her head was shaking from side to side in a slow constant motion, like the ticking of a pendulum clock.

  Magnus and Mauvin flanked her. Neither said a word as Royce explained the plan. In their eyes, Hadrian could see concern, but also resignation. Gaunt was up and looking hopeful, his eyes bright for the first time since they had entered the room.

  “It’s the only way,” Royce assured her as he sat down on his pack, where he had left his boots. “And it will work. I know it will.”

  “You’ll die!” she shouted. “You’ll die and I won’t be able to save you.”

  Royce pulled his boots on. “Of course I will, and I don’t want you to,” he said, and paused a moment before adding, “It will all be over—finally.”

  “No, you’ll both die, I know it.” Arista looked up at Hadrian with the same expression of terror on her face. “Don’t do this. Please.”

  Hadrian turned away and unbuckled his belt, dropping his swords. He would be able to run faster without them. “Which way you gonna go, Royce?”

  “Right, I think,” he said, throwing off his cloak. “That will put me on its left; maybe it’s right-handed. I’ll try to keep it busy as long as possible, but we’ll see how fast it is. I’m going to try to sneak to the right corner and get as far in as possible before I draw its attention, so wait for me to yell. With luck, you’ll have an open field to run across.”

  “You’re doing it now?” The princess’s head was shaking even faster.

  Hadrian leaned against the wall and stretched his legs, then jogged in place for a few seconds. “No sense putting it off.”

  “Please,” Arista begged in little more than a whisper. Taking a step toward Hadrian, she reached out and then stopped.

  Royce approached Magnus, who took a step back. The thief reached into his cloak and pulled out Alverstone, still in its sheath. He held it out to the dwarf. “I was wondering if you could watch after this for me.”

  “Are you serious?” the dwarf asked.

  Royce nodded.

  Slowly, warily, Magnus touched the weapon gingerly with both hands, cradling it like a newborn.

  “You’re really going to do this?” the dwarf asked, nodding at the Vault of Days.

  “It’s all that’s left to try.”

  “I—I could go,” Magnus said, still looking at the dagger. “I could take a lantern—”

  “With your little legs?” Royce laughed. “You’d just get Hadrian killed.”

  Magnus looked up, his brows running together, his lips shifting as if he were chewing something. “I should be the last person…” The dwarf stopped.

  “Let’s just say recent events have made me realize I’ve done a number of things I shouldn’t have. Bad things. Worse, I suppose, than what you’ve done. Right now, hating you seems… stupid.” Royce smiled.

  The dwarf nodded. “I’ll—I’ll hold on to it for you, take good care of it, but just until you need it again.”

  Royce nodded and moved to the door. He reached up and drew back the seals. “Shall we, partner?”

  “See you on the other side, pal.”

  Hadrian threw his arms around the thief and, surprisingly, felt Royce hug him back. With one final smile, Royce pushed open the door and disappeared into the darkness of the Vault of Days.

  Hadrian waited at the doorway. He could not see anything, nor could he hear a sound, but he did not expect to.

  “Do you want the lantern?” Myron whispered.

  “No,” Hadrian replied. “I’ll run faster without it, but maybe the princess could stand here and make her robe bright when I start to run.” He said this without turning, without looking at her.

  “Of… course,” he heard her say, her voice strained, stalling in her throat.

  They all waited, staring into the black room, listening carefully. Hadrian peered into the dark, trying to guess where it was, where either of them was.

  “Hadrian, I—” Arista began in a whisper and he felt a light hand on the small of his back.

  “Over here, monster!” Royce shouted, his voice booming across the great darkened expanse, echoing off the distant walls. “Come get me before I find the sword with your name on it and drive it through your foul excuse for a heart!”

  Royce watched as Arista’s robe lit up, throwing white light in the room, at the sound of his voice. It was not nearly as bright as before, but enough to reveal the far wall, the open door, and the great beast in the middle of the room.

  The Gilarabrywn was looking right at him. Royce braced himself, trying to decide whether it would strike with its mouth or a taloned foot.

  How fast is it? How quickly can it cover the distance between us? Royce was far enough away that even as big as it was, the beast would have to take at least ten steps to reach him. He wondered if it would lumber due to its size. He reminded himself it was not a real creature; it was magic and perhaps the same rules might not apply. It was possible that it could sprint like a tiny lizard or lash out like a snake. He stayed on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight back and forth, waiting for the lunge.

  “Come on,”
he shouted. “I’m in your lousy room. You know you want me.”

  The beast took a slow step toward him, then another.

  “Go!” Royce shouted.

  Hadrian ran out the door. He had cleared only five strides when the monster whirled on him. Hadrian dug in his heels and slid to the ground as the giant head snapped around with amazing speed.

  “Get back!” Arista screamed.

  Royce ran forward. “Over here! You stupid thing,” he shouted, waving his hands over his head.

  The Gilarabrywn ignored Royce and charged Hadrian, who scrambled back toward the light of Arista’s robe, which once more brightened.

  “Gilarabrywn!” Royce called. The beast stopped its pursuit. “Over here, you stupid thing! What? Don’t you like me? Am I too thin?” The beast looked toward Royce but did not move away from the door.

  “By Mar!” Royce exclaimed in frustration.

  “Minith Dar,” the Gilarabrywn said, and its voice rumbled the chamber like thunder.

  “It spoke,” Royce said, stunned.

  “That’s right. They talk in Old Speech.” He heard Arista.

  “What did it say?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know the language well. I think he said, ‘Comprehension is missing,’ but I don’t know,” she shouted.

  “I do.” It was Myron’s voice coming into the darkness. “It said, ‘I don’t understand.’ ”

  “It doesn’t understand what?”

  “Royce can’t hear a shrug, Myron,” Hadrian said.

  “I don’t know,” the monk replied.

  “Ask it,” Arista suggested.

  There was a pause; then Myron spoke again. “Binith mon erie, minith dar?”

  The creature ignored Myron and continued to stare at Royce.

  “Maybe he didn’t hear you.”

  Myron shouted louder. Still the beast ignored him, his eyes fixed on Royce.

  “By Mar,” Royce said again.

  “Minith Dar,” the Gilarabrywn replied.

  “That’s it!” Myron shouted. “Bimar! Bimar means hungry in Old Speech.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Arista confirmed. “But it only seems to hear Royce.”

  “He’s elvish,” Hadrian said. “Maybe—”

  “Of course!” the princess shouted. “It’s just like Avempartha! Say something to it in Old Speech, ask it a question. Say, ‘Ere en kir abeniteeh?’ ”

  “Ere en kir abeniteeh?” Royce repeated.

  “Mon bir istanirth por bon de havin er main,” the Gilarabrywn replied.

  “What’d I say—and what did it say?”

  “You asked its name, and it said…” Arista hesitated.

  “It said,” Myron started, taking over, “ ‘My name is written upon the sword of my making.’ ”

  “You can talk to it, Royce!” Arista told him.

  “Wonderful, but why isn’t it eating me?”

  “Good question,” the princess replied. “But let’s not ask that. No sense giving it any ideas.”

  Royce stepped forward. The Gilarabrywn did not move. He took another step, then another, staying on the balls of his feet. He knew the beast was clever and this was just the sort of ploy it might use to get him off his guard. Another step and then another. He was within striking distance; still the Gilarabrywn did not move.

  “Careful, Royce,” Hadrian told him.

  Another step, then another and the Gilarabrywn’s tail was just inches away.

  “I wonder how it feels about having its tail pulled.” Royce reached out and touched it. Still the Gilarabrywn did not move. “What’s wrong with it? Myron, how do you say move away?”

  “Vanith donel.”

  Royce stood before the giant creature and in a strong voice ordered, “Vanith donel!”

  The Gilarabrywn backed up.

  “Interesting,” Royce said. He closed the distance between them. “Vanith donel!”

  Again the Gilarabrywn retreated.

  “Try coming out,” Royce said.

  The moment Hadrian set foot outside the door, the Gilarabrywn advanced once again. Hadrian retreated into the room.

  “How do you say stop?”

  “Ibith!”

  Royce ordered it to halt and it froze.

  “Myron, how do you say do not harm anyone?”

  Myron told him and Royce repeated the phrase.

  “And how do you say allow their passage through this room?”

  “Melentanaria, en venau brenith dar vensinti.”

  “Really?” Royce said, surprised.

  “Yes, why?”

  “I know that one.” Esrahaddon had taught him Melentanaria, en venau in Avempartha. Once more Royce repeated Myron’s words, and for a third time Hadrian stepped out of the room into the Vault of Days. This time, the Gilarabrywn did not move.

  “Vanith donel!” Royce shouted, and the Gilarabrywn stepped back, granting them passage.

  “This is amazing,” Arista said, entering the room with Hadrian. “It’s obeying you.”

  “I wish I had known I could do this back in Avempartha,” Royce said. “It would have been real handy.”

  Royce herded the Gilarabrywn back against the far wall, the great beast stepping backward before the tiny figure of the thief, its head glaring down at him, but showing no signs of violence.

  “Alminule means stay,” Myron said.

  “Alminule,” Royce said, and backed up. The Gilarabrywn remained where it was. “Everybody cross. Just stay spread out a bit—just in case.”

  One by one, they ran the expanse. Arista waited in the open beside Royce to provide light until Gaunt—the last to leave—made the crossing.

  CHAPTER 22

  NOVRON THE GREAT

  The stone door on the far side of the Vault of Days was partially open, and taking the lantern from Myron, Hadrian was the first to enter. Inside, tall columns held up a high ceiling. The room was musty and stale. Large painted pots, urns, chests, and bowls lined the walls, as did life-sized statues, braziers, and figures of various animals, some easily identified, others he had never seen before. A colonnade lined both sides with arches framing openings, chambers within which lay stone sarcophagi. Above the arches words were carved and above them paintings of people.

  Hadrian heard Arista gasp behind him as the lantern revealed the floor at the center of the room, where three skeletons lay—two adults and a child. Beside them rested two crowns and a sword.

  “Nareion,” she whispered, “and his wife and daughter. He must have pulled them in here after Esrahaddon went to meet Venlin.”

  Hadrian wiped the blade with his thumb, revealing a fine script. “This is the sword, isn’t it?”

  Arista nodded.

  “Which one is Novron’s coffin?” Mauvin asked.

  “The largest,” Gaunt guessed. “And it would be on the end, wouldn’t it?”

  Arista shrugged.

  Myron had his head back reading the inscriptions on the walls above the arches, his lips moving slightly as he did.

  “Can you tell which it is?” Gaunt asked.

  Myron shook his head. “Up there.” He pointed at text on the ceiling. “It says this is the tomb of all the emperors.”

  “We know that, but which is Novron?”

  “The tomb of all the emperors, but…” Myron looked at the coffins, counting them with his index finger. “There’re only twelve coffins here. The empire lasted for two thousand one hundred and twenty-four years. There should be hundreds.”

  Hadrian moved around the room, looking at the sarcophagi. They were made of limestone and beautifully carved, each one different. A few had details of hunting and battle scenes, but one depicted nothing but a beautiful lake surrounded by trees and mountains. Another showed a cityscape and buildings being raised. Several of the archways were empty.

  “Could they have been moved?” Hadrian asked Myron.

  “Perhaps. Still, there are only twenty alcoves allotted here. Why so few?”

  “The rest
are probably behind this door,” Magnus suggested. He was at the far end of the crypt, appearing even smaller than normal against the backdrop of the great pillars and statues. “There’s an inscription.”

  The rest of them moved to the rear of the tomb to a plain wall with a single door and, over it, a single line of words.

  “What does it say, Myron?” Royce asked.

  “ ‘HERE LIES NYPHRON THE GREAT, FIRST EMPEROR OF ELAN, SAVIOR OF THE WORLD OF MAN.’ ”

  “There you are,” Magnus said. “The first emperor is inside.”

  Royce moved forward. The door was cut from rock. A set of stone pins held it fast and a lever hung recessed in the wall beside it. Royce took hold of the arm and rotated it, drawing out the pins, which ground loudly, until at last they came clear.

  With a gentle push, Royce opened the tomb of Novron.

  Hadrian held the lantern high as everyone stood behind Royce, who was the first to enter. Hadrian followed directly behind, along with Arista, whose robe helped illuminate the chamber. The first thing Hadrian saw was a pair of giant elephant tusks standing to either side of the door. They were arranged such that the points arched toward each other. Black marble pillars supported the four corners of the crypt, and within the space between them, treasure filled the tomb.

  There were golden chairs and tables, great chests, and cabinets. To one side stood a chariot made entirely of gold, to the other an elaborately carved boat. Spears lined one wall, and a group of shields another. Statues of men and animals cast of gold and silver, draped with jewelry, stood like silent guards. In the center of the room, raised high on a dais, rested a great alabaster sarcophagus. On the sides were divided frames similar to those etched on the walls—the story of a council, a battle, and a war. Nowhere was there the scene of Maribor bestowing the crown, which Hadrian thought odd, as it was the quintessential image found in every church.

  “This is it,” Mauvin muttered in awe. “We’ve found it, the crypt of Novron himself.” The count touched the chariot, grinning. “Do you think this was his? Was this what he rode into battle?”