Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

“What’s going on?” Arista asked, coming forward. She beamed a smile at Dunstan and Arbor.

  “Oh, Emma!” Arbor spoke to her with a fearful tone but said nothing more. Arista appeared puzzled for a moment and then laughed.

  “Oh dear,” Armigil went on when she noticed the wagon, where Allie and Mercedes were stretching and yawning. A sorrowful expression came over the brew mistress. “Ye got wee ones with ya too?”

  “Is it too late to hide them?” Arbor asked.

  “They can see us from there,” Osgar answered.

  Mauvin stepped up near Royce, peering up the road at the small figures coming down the hill. “How many do you count?”

  “Twelve,” Royce replied, “including Luret.”

  “Twelve?” Mauvin said, surprised. “Seriously?”

  Royce shrugged. “Maybe the fella that ran up there mentioned we had women and children.”

  “But twelve?”

  “Eleven, really.”

  Mauvin rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest in disgust as he watched them approach.

  “So Luret has you all working in the fields?” Hadrian asked as he dismounted and tied up his horse.

  “Are you daft man?” Armigil shouted. “What ere you makin’ conversation fer? They’re coming to arrest ya—if you’re lucky, that is! They’ll haul you to the dungeon, beat you, starve you, and likely torture you. That Luret is not right in the head.”

  Mince and the boys took it upon themselves to gather the horses and tie them to the wagon, taking time to pause and nod politely to the townspeople.

  They soon heard the stomp of feet as the soldiers from the manor house marched at them in an even rhythm. They moved in a two-line formation of six men in back and five in front. They wore chain mail and flat helms. Those in front carried spears, those in the rear, crossbows. Luret rode behind them on a pale speckled mare with a black face and one white-circled eye. Luret looked much the same as he had the last time Hadrian had seen him. The man still had hawkish features and brutal eyes. His attire, however, had improved. He wore a thick brocade tunic along with a velvet cape and handsome long gloves neatly embroidered with chevrons that ran up his wrists. His legs were covered in opaque hose, and his feet covered by leather shoes with brass buckles, which caught what remained of the setting sun.

  “Aha! The blacksmith’s son!” Luret exclaimed the moment he saw Hadrian’s face clearly. “Back to claim your inheritance? Or have you run out of places to hide? And who is this rabble?” He smirked, and waved his hand in the air. “Outlaws the lot of you, I’m sure.” He paused a moment as he took notice of the elves, but his sight fell back to Hadrian again. “You’ve brought them here to roost, eh? Think you can hide out amongst your old friends?” He pointed at Royce. “Oh yes, I remember you, and you too.” He looked at Arista. “I don’t think they will be quite so quick to take you in this time, not after the beating I gave them.” He looked at Dunstan, who stared down at his own feet. “They learned their lesson about harboring fugitives. Now it’s time for you to learn a lesson too. Arrest the lot of them. I want chains on these two.” He pointed at Hadrian and Royce.

  The soldiers managed only one step forward before Hadrian drew his swords. The rest followed his lead. To his left, Degan stepped up, and beside him Magnus held his hammer. To his right the elves advanced to stand in front of Royce, causing him to sigh. Even the boys drew daggers, except for Kine and Mince, who did not have any, but they put up their fists, nonetheless.

  The soldiers hesitated. Luret drummed his fingers on his saddle horn. “I said arrest them!”

  One of the soldiers near Royce jabbed forward with his spear. The nearest elf severed the metal tip from the shaft. The guard backed up, holding the wooden staff.

  None of the others moved.

  Luret’s face reddened. “You are defying arrest! You are challenging an imperial envoy and duly appointed magistrate and executor of this estate. I demand you surrender at once! Surrender or by the power invested in me by the empress herself I will have you shot where you stand!”

  No one moved.

  “I don’t recall investing anything in you, much less the power to kill members of my personal entourage,” Modina said as she walked forward from the rear of the party.

  Luret put a hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun and squinted in her direction. “Who is this now?”

  “You don’t recognize me?” Modina asked in a light and lilting voice. “And yet you are so quick to evoke my name. Allow me to introduce myself. Perhaps it will jog your memory. I am the slayer of Rufus’s Bane, the high priestess of the Church of Nyphron, Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Majesty, Empress Modina Novronian.”

  She cast off the blanket.

  Several people in the crowd gasped. Arbor staggered backward, causing Dunstan to catch hold of her, and Hadrian was certain he heard Armigil mutter, “I’ll be buggered.”

  The empress stood in her lavish gown. She was also adorned in the long black velvet mantle embroidered with the imperial crest, which she’d put on before presenting herself.

  “This—No, it’s not possible!” Luret muttered. “It’s a trick. A trick, I say! I won’t be hoodwinked. Look at this child. She is an impostor. A fake. All of you lay down your arms and come peacefully and I will only execute the blacksmith’s son and his companion. Defy me and all of you will die!”

  At that moment, the six soldiers with the crossbows began to sniffle. They blinked hard, their eyes watered, and they crinkled their noses. One by one, they began to sneeze, and then the thick sinewy skein of the crossbows snapped in loud pops, the metal bolts dropping helplessly to the dirt.

  Hadrian glanced at Arista, who smiled mischievously at him.

  “Before you get yourself into any more trouble,” Modina said, addressing Luret, who was now clearly concerned, “allow me to introduce the rest of my contingent. This is the princess—or rather now Queen Arista of Melengar, conqueror of Ratibor, and sorceress extraordinaire.”

  “I think she prefers wizardess,” Myron whispered.

  “Pardon me, wizardess. This is Royce Melborn, newly crowned king of the ancient realm of Erivan. With him, as you may have noticed, are three of his elven lords. This short gentleman is Magnus of the Children of Drome, a master of stone and earth. Beside him is Degan Gaunt, leader and hero of the Nationalists. Over here is the legendary sword master Count Pickering of Galilin. This is the Marquis of Glouston, the famed and learned monk of Maribor. And while he shouldn’t require any introduction, before you stands Hadrian Blackwater, Teshlor Knight, Guardian of the Heir of Novron, champion of the empire, and hero of the realm.

  “These defenders of the empire have passed through the underworld, fought armies of goblins, crossed treacherous seas, entered and returned from the lost city of Percepliquis, and this very day halted the advance of an unstoppable army and defeated the being who long ago murdered our savior Novron the Great. They saved not only the empire but all of you as well. You owe them your lives, your respect, and your eternal gratitude.”

  She paused to stare at the wide-eyed Luret. “Well, envoy, magistrate, and executor, what say you?”

  Luret looked at the faces around him. He saw his men laying down their weapons. He glanced at the faces of the villagers, then kicked his horse and bolted. He did not head back up the road to the manor but rather fled out to the open fields.

  “I could make him fall off the horse,” Arista mentioned, but Modina shook her head.

  “Let him go.” She looked at the soldiers. “The rest of you can go as well.”

  “Wait,” Hadrian said. “Lord Baldwin is imprisoned at the manor, is that right?”

  The soldiers slowly nodded, their faces coated in concern.

  “Go free him at once,” Modina said. “Tell him what you have seen and that I will be visiting him and his household tomorrow. In fact, tell him he will have the honor of hosting me and my court until such time as I arrange more permanent accommodations.”
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  They nodded, bowed, and walked backward for a dozen steps before giving up, turning, and running up the street.

  “I think you made an impression,” Hadrian told her, then looked at the villagers.

  They all stood like posts, staring at Modina, their mouths agape.

  “Armigil, you do still brew beer, right?” Hadrian asked.

  “What, Haddy?” she said, dazed, still staring at the empress.

  “Beer, you know… barley, hops… It’s a drink. We could really do with a barrel about now, don’t you think?” He waved a hand in front of Dunstan. “Maybe a warm place to rest. Perhaps a bite of food?” He snapped his fingers three times. “Hello?”

  “Is that really the empress?” Armigil asked.

  “Yeah, so she’s gonna be able to pay you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  This snapped her out of her daze. The old woman scowled at him and shook a finger. “Ya know better than that, ya overgrown skunk! ’Ow dare ya be callin’ me inhospitable! Whether she’s the empress or a tart dragged from the gutter, ya know they both would be equally welcome to a pint and a plate in Hintindar—at least now that Uberlin ’imself is gone.” She looked at Dunstan and Arbor. “And what are ya doing standing there and gawking fer? Throw some dough in the oven. Osgar, Harbert, get over ’ere and lend a ’and with a barrel. Algar, see if’n yer wife has any more of that mince pie and tell Clipper to cut a side of salt pork from—”

  “No!” Hadrian, Arista, Mauvin, and Degan shouted all at once, startling everyone. They all began to laugh.

  “Please, anything but salt pork,” Hadrian added.

  “Is—is mutton okay?” Abelard asked, concerned. Abelard the shearer and his wife, Gerty, had lived across the street from the Blackwaters for years. He was a thin, toothless, balding man who reminded Hadrian of a turtle, the way his head poked out of his cowl.

  They all nodded enthusiastically.

  “Mutton would be wonderful.”

  Abelard smiled and started off.

  “And bring your fiddle and tell Danny to bring his pipe!” Dunstan shouted after him. “Looks like spring came a bit early this year, eh?”

  Arista was being careful, having learned her lesson before. This time she limited herself to just one mug of Armigil’s brew; even then, she felt a tad light-headed. She sat next to Hadrian on top of flour sacks piled on the wide pine of the bakery floor. The floor itself was slippery from the thin coating of flour that the girls loved playing on. Allie and Mercy slid across the floor as if it were a frozen pond, at least until enough people arrived to make a good slide impossible. Arista thought about offering to help Arbor, but she already had half a dozen women working in her cramped kitchen, and after everything, it felt too good just sitting there leaning against him, feeling Hadrian’s arm curled around her back. She smelled the sweet aroma of baking bread and roasting lamb. She listened to the gentle chatter of friendly conversations all around her and drank in the warmth and comfort. It made her wonder if this was what Alric had found within the light. She wondered if it smelled of baking bread, and remembering, she was almost certain it had.

  “What are you thinking?” Hadrian asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, I was hoping Alric was happy.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  She nodded and Hadrian raised his mug. “To Alric,” he said.

  “To Alric,” Mauvin agreed.

  Everyone in the room with a glass, mug, or cup—even those who had never heard of Alric—raised drinks. Her eyes landed on Allie, who now sat between Modina and Mercy nibbling like a bird on a hunk of brown bread.

  “To Wyatt and Elden,” she whispered, too quietly even for Hadrian to hear, and downed the last of her cup.

  “I wanted to say how sorry I am, Dun,” Hadrian told his friend as he handed out another helping of food. “Was it bad, what happened after we left?”

  Dunstan glanced up to see where his wife was. “It was hard on Arbor,” he said. “I think I looked worse than I was. She had to do most of the work around here for close to six weeks, but all that is over. I’m used to getting my head cracked now and again.” Dunstan grinned, then stared curiously at Hadrian and Arista, sitting arm in arm. Royce had just entered and Dunstan glanced nervously over at him. “You better watch yourself. He doesn’t look the type to be understanding about such things.”

  Dunstan moved away, leaving Arista and Hadrian looking at each other, puzzled.

  Royce hesitated at the door, his eyes on the girls as they sat at Modina’s feet. The empress was one of the few in the room to sit on a chair. It was not her idea, but the Bakers insisted. He walked over and sat beside Hadrian.

  “Where are your shadows?” Hadrian asked.

  “You look concerned.”

  “Just that if you’ve started another war, I’d like a heads-up is all.”

  “The level of confidence you have in my diplomatic skills is overwhelming.”

  “What diplomatic skills?”

  Royce frowned. “They’re outside. I talked with them about space,” Royce said.

  “You did?”

  “They speak Apelanese. And I do know some elvish, remember.”

  Royce sat back against the table leg, his eyes on Mercy as she giggled at something Allie whispered in her ear.

  “Why don’t you go talk to her?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce shrugged, his brow creased with worry.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Royce stood up. “It’s a little warm in here for me.”

  They watched him gingerly step around those on the floor and slip back out. Hadrian looked at Arista.

  “Go ahead,” she told him.

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I am. Go.”

  He smiled, gave her a kiss, and then stood to chase after Royce.

  Arista sat for a moment looking around her at all the friendly, rosy faces, talking, laughing, smiling. The bowls of steaming pottage were coming off the open hearth and making their rounds. Abelard, seated on an overturned bucket, was rosining his bow and plucking strings on his fiddle while he waited for Danny, who sat beside him finishing up a plate of lamb. The place was filling up and sitting room was getting scarce. Despite the crowd, a wide berth was maintained around Modina, who planted herself in the corner across from the door, smiling more brightly than Arista had ever seen her. Only the girls dared come within an arm’s length, but every eye in the room repeatedly glanced her way.

  Arista stood up and found Arbor throwing a round loaf in the oven. She leaned against the counter and wiped her head with the back of her flour-covered hands. “That’s the last of it,” she said, and smiled at her. “I was worried about you,” she told Arista. “We both were.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes! The way you left that night, and then when the soldiers came—we were afraid for you. The village was in turmoil that whole week. Men came through here four times spilling the flour and searching. I didn’t know what they wanted you for—I still don’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Arista said. “That’s all over and everything is going to be different from now on.”

  Arbor’s expression showed she did not know what to make of that.

  “Say, do you still have that dress I gave you?”

  “Oh yes!” She looked down at Arista’s robe. “You’ll be wanting it back, of course.” She started to leave and Arista took her hand.

  “No, that’s not why I was asking.”

  “But it’s okay. I took real fine care with it—never wore it once. I just looked at it a few times, you know.”

  “I was just thinking you should try it on, because I think you’re going to be needing it.”

  “Oh no, I’ll never need a dress that fine. Like I told you before, there’s no chance of me going to a fancy ball or anything like that.”

  “That’s just it,” Arista told her. “I think you will—that is, if you accept.”

  “Accept what?”


  “I’d like you to be the maid of honor at my wedding.”

  Arbor looked back at her, confused. “But, Erma, you’re already married to Vince.”

  It was Arista’s turn to look puzzled and then she laughed aloud.

  Hadrian caught up with Royce at the footbridge. It was dark, but the moon was bright and he spotted his friend’s dark figure leaning over the rail, staring into the dark waters trickling below.

  “Crowd getting to you?” Hadrian asked. Royce did not reply. He did not even look up. “So what will you do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Royce said softly.

  “You realize that being the real descendant of Novron makes you not only the King of Erivan but Emperor of Apeladorn as well. Have you spoken with Modina?”

  “She already told me she would step down.”

  “Emperor Royce?” Hadrian said.

  “Doesn’t really sound right, does it?”

  Hadrian shrugged and leaned against the same rail. “It could in time.”

  Except for the bakery, the street was dark, although there were some lights on at the manor house. They were tiny dots from where they stood, like bright yellow stars at the top of the hill.

  “I hear you’re going to marry Arista.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Myron mentioned something about doing the honors.”

  “Ah—right. Well, I thought he’d do a good job, and neither of us are real thrilled with the idea of a Church of Nyphron ceremony.”

  “I think it’s a good idea.” Royce looked back at the water below. “And don’t wait. Marry her right away and start being happy.”

  The breeze rustled the bare limbs of the nearby trees and blew a faint hiss as it passed under the bridge. Hadrian pulled his collar tight and looked over the edge. He stared down at the dark waters below.

  “So are you going to look for who killed her?” Hadrian asked. “You know, don’t you? Do you want me to come?”

  “No,” Royce replied. “He’s already dead.”

  “Really? How do you feel about that?”

  Royce shrugged.

  “I knew it wasn’t Merrick,” Royce said, tearing a leaf and throwing it over the edge of the bridge. “I still remember his face, looking up at me. Telling me it wasn’t him. Explaining how it couldn’t have been him. He was confounded by it. Merrick confounded—that was my first clue. Today I got the final clue.”