Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

“Put ’em in numbers four and five,” a guard ordered.

  More steps. A cell door opened. There was a scuffle and then the door slammed. More steps and the sound of a burden dragged across the stone. They came closer and closer but stopped just short of her door.

  Another cell opened. The burden dropped—a painful grunt.

  Tink-tink.

  The guards went back out and sealed them in. It was only a deposit. There would be no food, no water, no help, not even the salvation of an execution.

  Arista continued to lie there. The noise had not scared Jasper away. She could hear him breathing near her head. In a moment or two, the rat would resume his meal. She began to sob again.

  “Arista?”

  She heard the voice but quickly concluded she had only imagined it. For the briefest moment she thought it was—

  “Arista, it’s Hadrian. Are you there?”

  She blinked and rocked her head side to side on the stone floor.

  What is this? A trick? A demon of my own making? Has my mind consumed itself at last?

  “Arista, can you hear me?”

  The voice sounded so real.

  “Ha—Hadrian?” she whispered in a voice so faint she feared he would not hear.

  “Yes!”

  “What are you doing here?” Her words came out as little more than puffs of air.

  “I came to save you. Only I’m not doing very well.”

  There was the sound of tearing cloth.

  Nothing made sense. Like all dreams, this one was both silly and wonderful.

  “I messed up. I failed. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be…” she said to the dream, her voice cracking. “It means a lot… that you… that anyone tried.”

  “Don’t cry,” he said.

  “How long until… my execution?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Please…” she begged. “I don’t think I can stand this much longer. I want to die.”

  “Don’t say that!” The dungeon boomed with his voice. The sudden outburst sent Jasper skittering away. “Don’t you ever say that.”

  There was another long pause. The prison grew silent once more, but Jasper did not return.

  The tower was swaying. She looked under the bed, but still she couldn’t find the brush. How was that possible? They were all there except the first one. It was the most important. She had to have it.

  Standing up, she accidently caught sight of her reflection in the swan mirror. She was thin, very thin. Her eyes had sunk into their sockets like marbles in pie dough. Her cheeks were hollow, and her lips stretched tight over bone, revealing rotted teeth. Her hair was brittle and falling out, leaving large bald areas on her pale white skull. Her mother stood behind her with a sad face, shaking her head.

  “Mother, I can’t find the brush!” she cried.

  “It won’t matter soon,” her mother replied gently. “It’s almost over.”

  “But the tower is falling. Everything is breaking and I have to find it. It was just here. I know it was. Esrahaddon told me I needed to get it. He said it was under the bed, but it’s not here. I’ve looked everywhere and time is running out. Oh, Mother, I’m not going to find it in time, am I? It’s too late. It’s too late!”

  Arista woke. She opened her eyes, but there was no light to indicate a difference. She still lay on the stone. There was no tower. There were no brushes, and her mother was long dead. It was all just a dream.

  “Hadrian… I’m so scared,” she said to the darkness. There was no answer. He had been part of the dream too. Her heart sank in the silence.

  “Arista, it will be all right.” She heard his voice again.

  “You’re a dream.”

  “No. I’m here.”

  His voice sounded strained.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Just tired. I was up late and—” He grunted painfully.

  “Wrap the wounds tight,” another man said. Arista did not recognize him. This voice was strong, deep, and commanding. “Use your foot as leverage.”

  “Wounds?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing. The guards just got a bit playful,” Hadrian told her.

  “Are you bleeding badly?” the other voice asked.

  “I’m getting it under control… I think… Hard to tell in the dark. I’m… feeling a bit dizzy.”

  The dungeon’s entrance opened again and once more there was the sound of feet.

  “Put her in eight,” a guard said.

  The door to Arista’s cell opened and the light of the guard’s torch blinded her. She could barely make out Lady Amilia’s face.

  “Eight’s taken,” the guard shouted down the corridor.

  “Oh yeah, number eight gets emptied tomorrow. Don’t worry about it, for one night they can share.”

  The guard shoved the secretary inside and slammed the door, casting them into darkness.

  “Oh dear Novron!” Amilia cried.

  Arista could feel her kneeling beside her, stroking her hair.

  “Dear Maribor, Ella! What have they done to you?”

  “Amilia?” the deep voice called out.

  “Sir Breckton! Yes, it’s me!”

  “But—why?” the knight asked.

  “They wanted me to make Modina denounce you. I refused.”

  “Then the empress knew nothing? This is not her will?”

  “Of course not. Modina would never agree to such a thing. It was all Saldur’s and Ethelred’s doing. Oh, poor Ella, you’re so thin and hurt. I’m so sorry.”

  Arista felt fingers brushing her cheek gently and realized she had not heard Hadrian in a long time. “Hadrian?”

  She waited. There was no response.

  “Hadrian?” she called again, fearful this time.

  “Ella—er—Arista, calm down,” Amilia said.

  Arista felt her stomach tighten as she realized just how important it was to hear his voice, to know he was still alive. She was terrified he would not speak again. “Had—”

  “I’m… here,” he said. His voice was weak and labored.

  “Are you all right?” Arista asked.

  “Mostly, but drifting in and out.”

  “Has the bleeding stopped?” Breckton asked.

  “Yeah… I think.”

  As the night wore on, Modina could still hear them—voices shouting in anger and crying out in rage. There must be hundreds, perhaps thousands, by then. Merchants, farmers, sailors, butchers, and road menders all shouted with one voice. They beat on the gate. She could hear the pounding. Earlier, Modina had seen smoke rising just outside the walls. In the darkness she could see the flicker of torches and bonfires.

  What is burning? An effigy of the regents? The gate itself? Maybe it is just cook fires to feed all of them while they camp.

  Modina sat at the window and listened to the wails the cold wind brought her.

  The door to her bedroom burst open. She knew who was there before turning around.

  “Get up, you little idiot! You’re going to make a speech to calm the people.”

  Regent Saldur crossed the dim chamber with Nimbus in tow. He held out a parchment toward Nimbus.

  “Take this and have her read it.”

  Nimbus slowly approached the regent and bowed. “Your Grace, I—”

  “We don’t have time for foolishness!” Saldur exploded. “Just make her read it.”

  The regent paced with intensity while Nimbus hurriedly lit a candle.

  “Why is there no guard at this door?” Saldur asked. “Do you have any idea what could happen if someone else had waltzed up here? Have soldiers stationed as soon as we leave or I’ll find someone else to replace Amilia.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Nimbus brought over the candle and said, “His Grace respectfully requests that—”

  “Damn you.” Saldur took the parchment from Nimbus. He brought it over and held it
so close to Modina’s face that she could not have read it even if she had known how. “Read it!”

  Modina did not respond.

  “You spoke well enough for Amilia. You always speak for her. You even opened your mouth when I threatened her for letting you play with that damn dog. Well, how’s this, my little empress? You get out there and read this—clearly and accurately—or I will have your sweet little Amilia executed tomorrow along with the rest. Don’t think I won’t. I’ve already sent her to the dungeon.”

  Modina remained as unmoving as a statue.

  Saldur struck her across the face. She rocked back but made no sound. Not a hand rose in defense. She did not flinch or blink. A tear of blood dripped from her lip.

  “You insane little bitch!” He hit her again.

  Once more, she showed no notice, no fear, no pain.

  “I’m not certain she can even hear you, Your Grace,” Nimbus offered. “Her Eminence has been known to go into a kind of trance when overwhelmed.”

  Saldur stared at the girl and sighed. “Very well, then. If the crowd doesn’t disperse by morning, we’ll send out the army to cut us a path to the cathedral. But the wedding will go on as scheduled and then we can finally be rid of her.”

  Saldur turned and left.

  Nimbus paused to set the candle on Modina’s table. “I’m so very sorry,” he whispered before following the regent from the room.

  The door closed.

  Cool air on her face soothed the heat left by Saldur’s hand.

  “You can come out now,” Modina said.

  Mince crawled out from under the bed. He was pale in the light of the single flame.

  “I’m sorry you had to hide, but I didn’t want you to get into trouble. I knew he would be coming.”

  “It’s okay. Are you cold? Do you want the robe?” he asked.

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  Mince crawled back under the bed and pulled out the shimmering cloth. He shook it a few times before gently draping it over her shoulders.

  “Why do you sit next to this window? It’s awfully chilly and the stone is hard.”

  “You can sit on the bed if you like,” she said.

  “I know, but why do you sit here?”

  “It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done for so very long now.”

  There was a pause.

  “He hit you,” Mince said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you let him?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Soon it will all be over. Tomorrow is Wintertide.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes. She kept her eyes on the city, reflected by the flickering fires beyond her window. Behind her, Mince shifted and fidgeted occasionally, but he did not speak.

  Eventually Modina said, “I want you to do something for me.”

  “You know I will.”

  “I want you to go back to the city again. This time I want you to stay there. You need to be careful and find somewhere safe until the rioting is over. But—and this is the important thing—I don’t want you to come back here again. Will you promise me that?”

  “Yes, if that is what you want,” Mince told her.

  “I don’t want you to see what I must do. Or be hurt afterward because of it. I want you to remember me the way I’ve been over these last few days with you.”

  She got up, crossed to the boy, and kissed him on the forehead. “Remember what I said, and keep your promise to me.”

  Mince nodded.

  Modina waited until he left the room and his footsteps faded down the hall. She blew out the candle, took the water pitcher from the dresser, and shattered the mirror.

  From under the tarpaulin draped over a potato cart, Royce peered around the courtyard. He took special care to study the darkened corners and the gap behind the woodpile. A yellow glow rose from beyond the front gate as if the city was ablaze. Shouts were still coming from the far side, growing louder and demanding the release of Hadrian and Breckton. The unseen mob called for the empress to show herself. It was a perfect diversion but also put every guard in the palace on alert.

  “Are we going in or not?” Magnus grumbled, half buried in tubers. Royce answered by slipping out. The dwarf followed, and as they made their way to the well, Royce was impressed by how quietly Magnus moved. Royce kept a constant check on the guards facing the gate. No one was paying attention to the courtyard.

  “You want to crank me down, or do you want to go first?” Magnus whispered.

  “There’s no power in existence that could cause me to let you do the lowering.”

  Magnus muttered something about a lack of trust and sat on the bucket, holding the rope tight between his legs. Royce waited for the dwarf to get settled, then lowered him until Magnus signaled him to stop. When the weight left the bucket, Royce lowered the pail to the bottom, braced the windlass, and climbed down the rope.

  Albert had gained the dwarf access to the inner ward as a member of the wedding event crew. It had taken Magnus just five minutes to determine the dungeon’s location. A few stomps told him where to find empty spaces below. A nighttime lowering into the well by Royce had revealed the rest. Magnus deduced that the well, peppered with small air ducts, ran along the outer wall of the prison, granting the dwarf access to the face of the ancient stone. For eleven nights, Magnus had worked, cutting an entry. Merrick had been right—the prison was dwarven made—but he had never expected Royce to bring his own dwarf, especially one with experience in burrowing through stone.

  As Royce descended, he spotted a faint glow from an opening in the side of the shaft. The hole itself was really more like a tunnel, due to the thickness of the ancient stone. He removed the bundle he carried, containing a sword and lantern, and passed it through the hole to the dwarf. Even with all Magnus’s skill, the stone must have been difficult to dig through, as the passage was narrow. While sufficient for a dwarf, it was a tight squeeze for Royce, and he hoped Hadrian would fit.

  Emerging from the tunnel, Royce found himself peering around a small cell, where a dead body was lying on the floor. Dressed in a priest’s habit and curled into a tight ball, the dead man gave off a terrible stench. The room was tiny, barely large enough to accommodate the corpse. Magnus stood awkwardly against the wall, holding a crystal that glowed with a faint green radiance.

  Royce pointed at the rock. “Where’d you get the stone?”

  “Beats the heck out of flint and steel, eh?” Magnus grinned and winked. “I dug it up. I’m a dwarf, remember?”

  “Really trying to forget that,” Royce said. He crossed to the door, picked the lock, and peered down the hallway outside. The walls had the same kind of markings he had seen in Gutaria Prison—small spidery patterns. He examined the seam where the walls met the floor.

  “What are you waiting for? Let’s get on with it,” Magnus said.

  “You in a hurry?” Royce whispered.

  “It’s cold. Besides, I can think of a lot better places to be than here. Heck, the stench is reason enough. I’d like to be done with this.”

  “I’m heading in. You wait here and watch for anyone coming behind us—and be careful.”

  “Royce?” Magnus asked. “I did good, right? With the stonework, I mean.”

  “Sure. You did fine.”

  “After this is over… you think you could let me study Alverstone for a while? You know, as kind of a reward—to show your appreciation and all.”

  “You’ll be paid in gold, just like Albert. You’ve got to get over this obsession of yours.”

  Royce entered the hallway. The darkness was nearly absolute, the only illumination coming from Magnus’s green stone.

  He made a quick sweep of the corridors—no guards. Most of the cells were empty but he could hear faint movement and breathing from behind four doors. The only other sound was the drip, drip, drip of the well echoing off the stone walls. After he was sure it was safe, Royce lit the lantern but kept the flame low. He picked the lock o
n one of the cells and found a man lying motionless on the floor. His blond hair was a little longer than Royce remembered, but Royce was certain this was the man he had seen in the tower of Avempartha—Degan Gaunt. He was dangerously thin but still breathing. Royce shook him, but he did not wake. Royce left the door open and moved on.

  He unlocked the next cell, and a man sitting on the floor looked up. The resemblance was unmistakable and Royce recognized him immediately.

  “Who’s there?” Breckton Belstrad asked, holding up a hand to block the glare of the lantern.

  “No time to chat. Just wait here for a minute. We’ll be leaving soon.”

  Royce moved to the next cell. Inside, two women slept. One he did not know, and the other he almost did not recognize. Princess Arista was ghastly thin, dressed in a rag, and covered with what looked to be bite marks. He left them and moved to the last cell.

  “Fourth time’s the charm,” he whispered under his breath as he opened the final door.

  Hadrian sat leaning against the wall. He was shirtless. His tunic had been torn into strips and tied around his leg, arm, and midsection. His shirt was fashioned into a pad pressed tight to his side. Each piece of material was soaked dark, but Royce’s partner was still breathing.

  “Wake up, buddy,” Royce whispered, nudging him. Hadrian was damp with sweat.

  “About time you got here. I was starting to think you ran off and left me.”

  “I considered it, but the thought of Magnus as my best man kinda forced the issue. Nice haircut, by the way. It looks good on you—very knightly.”

  Hadrian started a laugh that turned to grunts of pain.

  “They skewered you good, didn’t they?” Royce asked, adjusting the cloth strips. He pulled the midsection one tighter.

  Hadrian winced. “The prison guards don’t like me much. They lost money betting against me five jousts in a row.”

  “Oh, well, that’s understandable. I would have stuck you too.”

  “You got Arista, right? And Gaunt? Is he alive?”

  “Yeah, she’s sleeping next door. As for Gaunt, he’s in pretty bad shape. I’ll have to drag him out. Can you walk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Royce gripped Hadrian around the waist and slowly helped him up. Together they struggled down the corridor to the end cell with the well breach. Royce pushed on the door but it did not budge. He put more effort into it but nothing happened.