Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “I’ll second that,” Magnus grumbled. “It was bad enough when humans controlled Drumindor; now there’s Ghazel wandering its halls.”

  “The empire needs people of good character to guide and protect the people, good arms, strong arms, wise arms. I can only do so much.” She gestured at those in her court. “We can only do so much. The realm is vast and we can’t be everywhere. Plus, there is the matter of stability. While I am alive, the empire will be strong, but even small kingdoms have fractured at the passing of a monarch. The larger the empire, the greater the threat. With no structure in place, no solid tradition to hold us together, the empire could break into civil wars.”

  “Two of the things that made the Old Empire so strong—so cohesive,” Nimbus told them, “were the Cenzarium and Teshlor Guild. The Grand Council was created from the best and brightest of both. They maintained order and could govern in the absence of a ruler. Until these institutions are restored—until wizards and knights of the old order patrol the roads and visit the courts of distant governors to ensure they are upholding the law—until they guard the borders of Calis and Estrendor, the empire will not be safe or whole.”

  “Imagine what a hundred Hadrians and a hundred Aristas could do,” Modina told them. “And you.” She glanced at Myron. “We need a new university. Sheridan is gone. We can think of no one better to lead such a project.”

  “But I—” the monk began.

  “Think of it as a bigger monastery,” Nimbus interrupted. “Administering to a larger flock. You will teach them of lore, philosophy, engineering, languages—including elvish—and of course about Maribor. Teams can be sent into the old city to retrieve any volumes that still remain there. They can be the seeds that can help you spread knowledge to all who are willing to learn.”

  “We will collect all the works and place them under a huge dome of the greatest library ever constructed,” Modina added.

  “That does sound nice, but my brother monks…”

  “There will be plenty of work for all.”

  “I’ve already started laying the foundation for the scriptorium,” Magnus told him. “It’s five times the size of what we had at the Winds Abbey.”

  “And the Cenzarium?” Arista looked at the dwarf.

  Magnus smiled sheepishly. “The walls are already going up. If you look out there, to the left, you can see them.”

  “So this has already been settled on?” she asked, pretending to sound indignant.

  “While certainly no one,” Nimbus replied deftly, “least of all those present here—would ever ask any more of you two, and while you have earned a long and well-deserved rest, I was confident you would not abandon your empress, or the empire you fought so hard to establish.”

  “Where’s the guildhall to be?” Hadrian asked.

  Magnus pointed. “Across the square from the Cenzarium, of course. Just like in the old city.”

  “At least we will be close neighbors,” Hadrian said.

  “We can have lunches together.” Arista grinned at him.

  “And in between them will be a fountain and statue of Alric, Wyatt, and Elden,” Modina explained.

  “Well?” Hadrian asked her.

  Arista narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “You’re replacing yourself with us, aren’t you?” she asked Nimbus.

  “Yes, you are to be the seeds of a new grand council.”

  “At least you’re honest. All right,” she said, and then glared at Magnus. “But I will be the one to decorate the interior of the Cenzarium. I’ve seen dwarven tastes and it isn’t conducive to the Art.”

  Magnus scoffed and grumbled something under his breath.

  The door to the palace opened and Royce stepped out. “Hadrian, do you know where—” Royce stopped the instant he saw Nimbus, a look of shock on his face.

  “Royce?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce said nothing but continued to stare at the wigged chancellor.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Modina said. “You’ve never met Nimbus, have you?”

  “Yes—yes, I have,” Royce said. He stepped forward, approaching the chancellor. “I thought you were dead.”

  “No,” Nimbus replied. “I’m still alive, my dear friend.”

  Everyone looked at them, confused.

  “But how?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I came back,” Royce told him. “I tried to free you. I tried to save you, but Ambrose told me…”

  “I know, but I wasn’t the one who needed to be freed, and I wasn’t the one you needed to save.”

  The morning arrived bright and clear. Golden sunlight slanted across Amberton Lee, casting shadows marking the growing city that spread out like a newly planted field of hope. In the valley, a low mist, like a white cloud, shrouded the twisting Bernum River and the air was still and quiet even on the hilltop.

  Modina was already up. She wrapped a cape over her shoulders and headed out to the porch. She found Royce sitting there, his feet dangling from the side, watching the girls as they raced down the dewy hillside, chasing after Mr. Rings.

  “You realize you’re taking one of my favorite girls from me,” she said.

  He nodded. “I made Lord Wymarlin of the Eilywin tribe steward and gave him orders to set Erivan on a peaceful footing. I’ve left them alone too long and need to check on his progress.” Royce looked out at the girls. “Besides, I don’t want her growing up only knowing half the story. I need to learn it too. I have to cross the Nidwalden where no man has ever set foot, see Estramnadon and the First Tree. Three thousand years seems impossibly long now, but one day… It will be better if both sides became friendlier neighbors, I think. They aren’t ready to embrace men, and men aren’t prepared to welcome them yet, but in time… maybe.

  “I’ve asked a number of those with mixed blood to pack their belongings and meet me at Avempartha. There aren’t many of us left now—a shame, as they could make perfect ambassadors—a foot in each world, as it were. They can be bridges for the future. We’ll start there, and then I’ll send them back here. Perhaps one day we’ll see an actual bridge across the Nidwalden with carts going both ways.” He pointed at the two girls. “That is the start of it, the heir of one throne and the heir of the other chasing an overgrown rodent together.”

  Hadrian and Arista came out to the porch. They took up seats beside Royce and nodded good-morning greetings.

  “Just make sure you take good care of her,” Modina said.

  “Believe me—no harm will come to that little girl so long as I live.”

  Hadrian laughed suddenly and Modina and Arista turned to him.

  “What?” Arista asked.

  “Sorry, but I just got a vision in my mind of Mercedes’s poor would-be suitors. Can you imagine the courage of the lad capable of asking him for her hand?”

  They all laughed except Royce, whose face darkened as he muttered, “Suitors? I never really thought—”

  Hadrian slapped Royce on his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll help you with your gear.”

  Royce finished loading the last saddlebag onto a packhorse the grooms had brought out. He once again checked the cinches of the pony Mercedes would ride. He was not about to trust the security of her saddle to anyone.

  Myron was there, petting the horses’ noses and saying a blessing over them. When he caught Royce watching, he smiled and said one over the new king as well. “Goodbye, Royce. I’m so pleased to have met you. Do you remember what we talked about at the Winds Abbey the last time we were there?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Royce’s mouth. “Everyone deserves a little happiness.”

  “Yes, never forget that. Oh, and if you find any books across the Nidwalden, bring them the next time you visit. I’d love to learn more about the elves.”

  “So this is goodbye,” Hadrian said as he and Arista came down the palace steps hand in hand.

  “You’ll finally be rid of me,” Royce told him.

  “You’ll be visiting again soon, w
on’t you?” Arista asked.

  He nodded and smiled. “I doubt they have Montemorcey on the other side of the river. I only have room to bring a few bottles.”

  “Then I will be sure to always have it on hand,” Arista told him. In her hands, she held out the Horn of Gylindora. “It’s supposed to go with the ruler of the elves.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No escort for the king?” Hadrian asked, looking around.

  “They are meeting us at the crossroads at the bottom of the hill beyond the forest. I didn’t want them staring at me while we said goodbye.”

  He took Arista’s hand and placed Hadrian’s on top of it. “I am officially turning him over to you. He’s your problem now. You’ll have to watch out for him and that won’t be easy. He’s naive, gullible, immature, horribly unsophisticated, ignorant about anything worth knowing, and idealistic to a fault.” He paused to make a show of thinking harder. “He’s also indecisive, pathetically honest, a horrible liar, and too virtuous for words. He gets up twice each night to relieve himself, wads his clothes rather than folds them, chews with his mouth open, and talks with his mouth full. He has a nasty habit of cracking his knuckles every morning at breakfast, and, of course, he snores. To remedy that, just put a rock under his blanket.”

  “That was you? All those nights when we camped?” Hadrian looked shocked.

  Arista put her arms around the thief and hugged him tight. Royce squeezed her back, then looked into her eyes for a long moment. “He’s a very lucky man.”

  She smiled and kissed him goodbye.

  Hadrian grabbed him next, hugging him and clapping him on the back. “Be careful out there, pal.”

  “I’m always careful. Oh, and do me a favor. See that Magnus gets this.” Royce handed him Alverstone. “Wait until I’m gone, and tell him—tell him the maker said he should have it.”

  Modina, Amilia, and Nimbus came out of the palace with the two girls and Mr. Rings, who Amilia held awkwardly in her arms. The empress was wiping tears from her cheeks and struggling to keep her lips from shaking. When she got to the steps, she bent down and hugged Mercedes, holding her for several minutes before letting her go. When she did, the little girl ran down the steps and pointed. “Is that my pony?”

  Royce nodded and Hadrian threw her up onto it.

  “Bye-bye, Allie!” she shouted, petting the pony’s mane. “I am off to become a fairy princess.” Amilia handed up the raccoon.

  Nimbus was dressed in traveling clothes, a small pack on his back and his familiar leather satchel at his side.

  “You’re leaving now as well?” Amilia hugged Nimbus.

  “I regret to say I must be off, Your Ladyship. It is time to go.”

  “I am sure your family in Vernes will be happy to see you return.”

  He smiled and, dipping his head, removed his chain of office and placed it in her hands.

  “Where’s your horse?” Hadrian asked.

  “I don’t need one,” Nimbus replied.

  “I think the empire can spare at least that much,” Modina told him.

  “I am certain it can, Your Eminence, but I honestly prefer walking.”

  It took another round of hugs, kisses, waves, and wishes of safe travels before Royce, Mercedes, and Nimbus actually started down the slope. Allie ran alongside all the way to the trees and then waved madly before turning and running back to Modina.

  Nimbus walked with them and Royce was careful to keep a slow, even pace.

  They entered the forest and soon lost all sight of the palace, the city, and the hill. They traveled in silence, listening to the morning symphony of birdsongs and honeybees. Mercedes was mesmerized by her new pet.

  “What’s my pony’s name?” she asked.

  “I don’t think it has one yet. Would you like to name it?”

  “Oh yes… Let me see… What’s yours called, Daddy?”

  “Mine is Mouse. The empress gave her that name.”

  Mercedes crinkled her nose. “I don’t like that. Is mine a boy or a girl?”

  “Boy,” Royce told her.

  “Boy… okay, hmm.” She tapped her lips with a perplexed expression, then furrowed her brow in serious thought.

  “How about Elias?” Nimbus suggested. “Or perhaps Sterling.”

  Royce stared at the ex-chancellor, who smiled pleasantly in return.

  “Sterling is nice,” Mercedes said.

  The forest thinned and they reached the open field where the old road crossed the new ones, freshly pressed by holiday travelers, leading west to Ratibor and north to Colnora. A short distance away a group of riders in gold and blue on white mounts waited.

  “This is where we part,” Nimbus told them.

  Royce stared at the thin man in the wig. “Who are you really?”

  Nimbus smiled. “You already know that.”

  “If it hadn’t been for you…” Royce paused. “I’ve always regretted that I never said thank you.”

  “And I wish to thank you as well, Royce.”

  He was puzzled. “For what?”

  “For reminding me that anyone, no matter what they’ve done, can find redemption if they seek it.”

  The thin man turned and walked down the road toward Ratibor. Royce watched him go, then turned to his daughter. “Let’s go visit the elves, shall we?” he asked. Just then, thunder cracked from overhead, shaking the ground and rustling the leaves on the trees.

  Royce looked up at the clear blue sky, confused.

  “Look!” Mercedes said, pointing down the road.

  Royce turned to see Nimbus standing still, his head bent back, his eyes looking up.

  A white feather drifted downward. It swirled, blowing on a gentle breeze until it was close enough that the tall spindly man in the white powdered wig reached up and caught it between his fingers. He kissed it gently, then slipped it into his leather pouch. He pulled the bag closed and continued on his way, whistling a merry tune, until he passed behind a hill and was gone.

  extras

  meet the author

  Michael J. Sullivan

  After finding a manual typewriter in the basement of a friend’s house, MICHAEL J. SULLIVAN inserted a blank piece of paper and typed: “It was a dark and stormy night, and a shot rang out.” He was just eight. Still, the desire to fill the blank page and see where the keys would take him next wouldn’t let go. For ten years Michael developed his craft for writing by reading and studying authors such as Stephen King, Ayn Rand, and John Steinbeck, to name a few. He wrote more than ten novels, and after finding no traction in publishing, he quit, vowing to never write creatively again.

  His hiatus from writing lasted nearly ten years. The itch returned when he decided to write books for his then thirteen-year-old daughter, who was struggling in school because of dyslexia. Intrigued by the idea of a series with an overarching story line told through individual, self-contained episodes, he created the Riyria Revelations. While he wrote the series with no intention of publishing it, he was surprised that after presenting his book in manuscript form to his daughter, she declared that it had to be a “real” book, bound and formatted, in order for her to be able to read it.

  So began his second adventure on the road to publication, which included drafting his wife to be his business manager, signing with a small independent press, and creating his own publishing company. He sold more than sixty thousand books as a self-published author and leveraged this success to achieve mainstream publication through Orbit (the fantasy imprint of Hachette Book Group) as well as foreign translation rights for France, Spain, Russia, and the Czech Republic.

  Born in Detroit, Michigan, Michael presently lives in Fairfax, Virginia, with his wife and three children and continues to fill the blank pages with three projects under development: a modern fantasy novel, a literary fiction piece, and a prequel to his best-selling Riyria Revelations.

  Find out more about the author at www.michaelsullivan-author.com.

  introducing

 
If you enjoyed

  HEIR OF NOVRON,

  look out for

  THE DRAGON’S PATH

  Book 1 of The Dagger and the Coin

  by Daniel Abraham

  Marcus’s hero days are behind him. He knows too well that even the smallest war still means somebody’s death. When his men are impressed into a doomed army, staying out of a battle he wants no part of requires some unorthodox steps.

  Cithrin is an orphan, ward of a banking house. Her job is to smuggle a nation’s wealth across a war zone, hiding the gold from both sides. She knows the secret life of commerce like a second language, but the strategies of trade will not defend her from swords.

  Geder, sole scion of a noble house, has more interest in philosophy than in swordplay. A poor excuse for a soldier, he is a pawn in these games. No one can predict what he will become.

  Falling pebbles can start a landslide. A spat between the Free Cities and the Severed Throne is spiraling out of control. A new player rises from the depths of history, fanning the flames that will sweep the entire region onto the Dragon’s Path—the path to war.

  The Apostate

  The apostate pressed himself into the shadows of the rock and prayed to nothing in particular that the things riding mules in the pass below him would not look up. His hands ached, the muscles of his legs and back shuddered with exhaustion. The thin cloth of his ceremonial robes fluttered against him in the cold, dust-scented wind. He took the risk of looking down toward the trail.

  The five mules had stopped, but the priests hadn’t dismounted. Their robes were heavier, warmer. The ancient swords strapped across their backs caught the morning light and glittered a venomous green. Dragon-forged, those blades. They meant death to anyone whose skin they broke. In time, the poison would kill even the men who wielded them. All the more reason, the apostate thought, that his former brothers would kill him quickly and go home. No one wanted to carry those blades for long; they came out only in dire emergency or deadly anger.