Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “That was before Avempartha, before I discovered who you are—murderer. You will not succeed.”

  “I already have. The emperor is dead; I know this. I have just one loose end to tie up. Tell me, where is Nevrik?”

  “I will die before telling you that.”

  “There are worse things than dying.”

  “I know,” she told him. “That’s why I choose death. Death for me, death for you…” She looked down the corridor to where the sunlight was streaming in. She could still hear the parade marching past the cheering crowds. “Death for everyone. It ends here, and Nevrik will return to his throne. It is time to bury the dead at last.”

  She looked out at the sun one more time and thought of Elinya. “Maribor take us both,” she said, and closing her eyes, began the weave.

  “He did it.”

  Arista woke up sweating, her heart pounding.

  She lay in a small dark room lit by a single lantern. A thin blanket separated her from the cold floor, another was placed over her, and a bag supported her head. The room was not much bigger than her old bedroom in the tower. It was a perfect square with a vaulted ceiling, the arches forming a star shape as they joined overhead. On either side of the room, two doors faced each other. One opened to the corridor; the other was shut tight and locked from their side. Nooks with brass lattice doors covered the walls, each alcove filled with piles of neatly placed scrolls, round tubes of yellowed parchment. Many of the little grates were open; several scrolls lay spilled on the floor, some of them torn to pieces. In the center of the room was a statue. She recognized it as a version of those she had seen in churches and chapels throughout her life. It was a depiction of Novron, only this one was missing the head. Its remains lay shattered and beaten to powder on the floor.

  Hadrian’s was the first face she saw, as he sat beside her. “You’re awake at last,” he said. “I was getting worried.”

  Myron was just to her left. He was the closest to the light, sitting in a mound of scrolls. The monk looked up, smiled, and waved.

  “You’re all right?” Hadrian asked with concern in his voice.

  “Just exhausted.” She wiped her eyes and sighed. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Five hours,” Royce said. She only heard his voice, as he was somewhere just outside the ring of light.

  “Five? Really? I feel like I could sleep another ten,” she said, yawning.

  Arista noticed in the corner an unpleasant-looking man—pale and withered—like a sickly molting crow. He sat hunched over, watching them, his dark marble eyes glaring.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Sentinel Thranic,” Hadrian told her. “The last living member of the previous team. I’d introduce you, but we sort of hate each other, seeing as how he shot Royce with a crossbow last fall—nearly killed him.”

  “And he’s still alive?” Arista asked.

  “Don’t look at me. I haven’t stopped him,” Hadrian told her. “Hungry?”

  “I hate to say it, given the circumstances, but I’m famished.”

  “We thought you died,” Mauvin told her. “You stopped moving and even stopped breathing for such a long time. Hadrian slapped you a few times, but it did nothing.”

  “You hit me again?” She rubbed her cheek, feeling the soreness.

  He looked guilty. “I was scared. And it worked last time.”

  She noticed the bandage on Mauvin’s arm. “You’re wounded?”

  “More embarrassed than anything. But that’s bound to happen when you’re a Pickering fighting beside Hadrian. Doesn’t really hurt that much, honest.”

  “Hmm, let’s see.” She heard Hadrian rummaging around in a pack. “Would you like salt pork… or perhaps… let’s see now… how about salt pork?” he asked with a smile, handing a ration to her. She tore it open with shaking hands.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked, and she was surprised at the concern in his voice.

  “Just weak—like a fever broke, you know?” Hadrian did not indicate whether he knew, but sat watching her as if she might drop over dead any minute. “I’m fine—really.”

  Arista took a bite of the meat. The heavily salted and miserably dry pork was a joy to swallow, which she did almost without chewing.

  “Alric?” she asked.

  “He’s in the corridor,” Hadrian told her.

  “You haven’t buried him yet, have you?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Good, I would like to take him back to Melengar to be laid in the tomb of his fathers.”

  The others looked away, each noticeably silent, and she saw a disturbing grin stretch across Thranic’s face. The sentinel appeared ghoulish in the lantern light; his malevolence chilled her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t look like we will be getting back to Melengar,” Hadrian told her.

  “The horn isn’t here?”

  “Apparently it’s through that door, but we haven’t—”

  “Through that door is death,” Thranic told her. He spoke for the first time, his voice a hissing rasp. “Death for all the children of Maribor. The last emperor’s guardian watches the Vault of Days and will not suffer anyone’s passage.”

  “Guardian?” she asked.

  “A Gilarabrywn,” Hadrian told her. “A big one.”

  “Well, of course it’s big, if it’s a Gilarabrywn.”

  Hadrian smiled. “You don’t understand. This one is really big.”

  “Is there a sword? There has to be a sword to slay it, right?”

  Hadrian sighed. “Royce says there’s another door on the far side. Maybe it’s over there. We don’t know. Besides, you realize there’s no reason for the sword to be down here at all.”

  “We have to look. We have to…”

  The sword.

  “What is it?” Hadrian asked.

  “Is the Gilarabrywn bigger than the one in Avempartha?”

  “A lot bigger.”

  “It would be,” she said, remembering her dream. “And the sword is there, on the far side of the room.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it… or at least, Esrahaddon did. Emperor Nareion created the Gilarabrywn himself. Esrahaddon enchanted the blade of the king’s sword with the name and Nareion conjured the beast. Only he did it with his own blood. He sacrificed himself in the making, adding power to the Gilarabrywn and assigning it the task of guarding the tombs where Esrahaddon hid the horn.”

  The sentinel eyed her curiously. “The Patriarch was not aware of its existence, nor did we realize it was there until we opened that door. No spell, no stealth, no army, no wishful thinking will grant anyone access to the room beyond. The quest for the horn ends here.”

  “And someone sealed the way out,” Gaunt reminded her. He reclined on his pack. His fur-lined houppelande, pulled tight to his chin, was torn and stained. His chaperon hat was a rumpled mess, the folds ripped and pulled down over his ears. The liripipe was missing altogether and Arista only then realized the same black cloth of Gaunt’s headdress wrapped Mauvin’s arm. “Which means we’re trapped in this room until we die of thirst or starvation. At least this bugger was able to live off goblins. What are we going to do, carve up each other?”

  “Don’t be so optimistic, Mr. Sunshine,” Mauvin told him. “You might just get our hopes too high, and then we’ll be disappointed in the end.”

  “We have to try something,” she said.

  “We will,” Hadrian assured her. “Royce and I don’t give up that easily—you know that—but you should rest more before we do anything. We might need you. By the way, what did you mean by ‘he did it’?”

  “What?”

  “When you woke up, you said, ‘He did it.’ It sounded important. Another one of your dreams?”

  “Oh, that, yeah,” she said, confused for a moment, trying to remember. Already the memory was fogged and blowing away. “It was Esrahaddon, he did this.”

  “Did what?”
>
  “All this,” she said, pointing up and whirling her hand around. “He destroyed the city—just like they said he did. You remember what I did at the stairs? Well, he was a bit more powerful. He collapsed the entire city, sunk and buried it.”

  “So he wasn’t kidding when he said he was better with hands,” Royce observed.

  “And the people?” Mauvin asked.

  “They were having a Founder’s Day celebration. The city was packed with people, all the dignitaries, all the knights and Cenzars, and… yes, he killed everyone.”

  “Of course he did!” Thranic shouted as best he could. “Did you think the church lied? Esrahaddon destroyed the empire!”

  “No,” she said. “He tried to save it. It was Patriarch Venlin who betrayed the emperor. He was behind it all. Somehow, he convinced the Teshlor and the Cenzar to join him. He wanted to overthrow the emperor, kill him and wipe out his entire family. I think it was his intention to become the new ruler. But Esrahaddon stopped him. He got the emperor’s son, Nevrik, out, then destroyed the city. I think he was trying to kill everyone associated with the rebellion, literally crushing all the enemies of Nevrik in one stroke. He expected to die along with them.”

  “But Esrahaddon survived,” Hadrian said.

  “So did Venlin,” she added. “I don’t know how. Maybe Yolric, or no—Venlin may have done something—cast some spell.”

  “The Patriarch was a wizard?” Hadrian asked.

  She nodded. “A very powerful one, I think. More powerful than Esrahaddon.”

  “That’s blasphemy!” Thranic said accusingly, and then fell into a coughing fit that left him exhausted.

  “He was so powerful that Esrahaddon never even considered fighting him. He knew he’d lose and Esra was capable of destroying this entire city and nearly everyone in it.”

  Arista paused and turned her head back the way they had come. “They were all out there, lining the streets. I think they were having a parade. Each of them singing, cheering, eating sweets, dancing, drinking Trembles, enjoying the spring weather—then it all ended.

  “I can still feel the chords Esrahaddon used. The deep chords, like the ones I touched on the ship just before you hit me. I barely touched those strings, but Esrahaddon played them loudly. His heart broke as he did it. A woman he loved lived in the city, a woman he planned to marry. He didn’t have time to get her out.”

  “This is larger than your loss! It is larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. Do you think I enjoyed it? Any of it? You forget—I lost my life as well. I had parents of my own, friends, and—”

  Arista finally knew the unspoken words from their last meeting in the Ratibor mayoral office. Her hand touched the material of the robe as she remembered the way she had treated him. She had had no idea.

  As a wizard, you must understand personal vengeance and gain are barred to you. We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune. A wizard must work for the betterment of all—and sacrifices are always necessary.

  She stared at the floor, recalling the memory of the dream and the memories of the past, feeling sadness and loss. Beside her, Hadrian began humming a simple tune and then sang softly the words to the old song:

  Gala halted, city’s doom

  Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom

  Darkness sealed, blankets all

  Death upon them, fall the wall.

  Ancient stones upon the Lee

  Dusts of memories gone we see

  Once the center, once the all

  Lost forever, fall the wall.

  “I grew up believing it was all just nonsense, something kids made up. We used to join hands, forming lines, and sing that while someone tried to pull the others down or break the line. If they did, they could take their place. We had no idea what any of it meant.”

  “Lies! All of it, lies!” Thranic shouted at them, straining to his knees. He was shaking, but Arista couldn’t tell if it was from weakness or rage—perhaps both.

  “I don’t think so,” Myron said from within a pile of scrolls.

  “You shouldn’t be reading those,” the sentinel snapped. “The church placed a ban on all literature found here. It is forbidden!”

  “I can see why,” Myron replied.

  “You are defying the Church of Nyphron by even touching them!”

  “Luckily, I am not a member of the Church of Nyphron. The Monks of Maribor have no such canon.”

  “You’re the one who ripped up these other scrolls,” Hadrian said accusingly.

  “They are evil.”

  “What was on them? What was so terrible? You were the one that burned the library. What are you trying to hide?” Hadrian thought a moment, then gestured toward the statue. “And what’s with the heads? You did that too. Not just this one, but all throughout the city. Why?”

  When Thranic remained silent, Hadrian turned to Myron. “What did you find out?”

  “Many things. The most significant is that elves were never enslaved by the empire.”

  “What?” Royce asked.

  “According to everything I’ve read since we’ve entered, elves were never enslaved. There’s overwhelming evidence that the elves were equal citizens—even revered.”

  “I demand that you stop!” Thranic shouted. “You will bring down the judgment of Novron upon us all!”

  “Careful, Myron,” Mauvin said. “We wouldn’t want matters to take a bad turn.”

  “Blasphemers! Wretched fools! This is why it was wrong to allow those outside the church to learn the Old Speech. This is why the Patriarch locked up Edmund Hall and sealed off the entrance, because he knew what could happen. This is why the heir had to die, because one day you would come down here. I failed to reach the horn, but I can still serve my faith!”

  Thranic moved with a speed unexpected from his withered appearance; he reached out and grabbed the lantern. Before even Royce could react, he threw it at Myron, smashing it. The glass burst with a popping sound. Oil splashed across the parchments, across the floor, across Myron. Flames rushed forth, low blue tongues licking along the glistening oil pool. Fire blazed over the scrolls and raced up Myron’s legs, chest, and face.

  Then vanished.

  With an audible crack, the room went black.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” Arista said in the dark. Her robe began to glow, revealing the room in a cold bluish radiance. She was glaring at Thranic. The pulsating light shining up from underneath lent her a fearful image. “Are you all right, Myron?”

  The monk nodded as he sat wiping the oil from his face. “Just a little warm,” he replied. “And I think my eyebrows are gone.”

  “You bastard!” Mauvin shouted at Thranic, getting to his feet and reaching for his sword. “You could have killed him! You could have killed all of us!”

  Even Gaunt was on his feet, but Thranic took no notice. The sentinel did not move. He slouched backward, resting against the wall in an odd twisted position. Thranic’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but he was not breathing.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Gaunt asked.

  Mauvin reached out. “He’s… dead.”

  Heads turned.

  “I only extinguished the flames,” Arista told them.

  Heads turned again.

  Royce was sitting in a different place than he had been before the fire. Arista looked back at Thranic’s body. Blood dripped from a thin red line at the neck.

  Mauvin let go of his sword and sat back down. “You sure you’re all right, Myron?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Myron stood up. He walked to the sentinel’s side and knelt down. He took a moment to close Thranic’s eyes, and taking the sentinel’s hand, he bowed his head and softly sang:

  Unto Maribor, I beseech thee

  Into the hands of god, I send thee

  Grant him peace, I beg thee

  Give him rest, I ask thee

  May the god of men watch over your journey.

  “How
can you do that?” Gaunt asked. “He tried to kill you. He tried to burn you alive. Are you so ignorant that you don’t see that?”

  Myron ignored Gaunt and remained beside Thranic, his head bowed, his eyes closed. A silence passed; then Myron folded Thranic’s hands over his chest and stood up. He paused before Gaunt. “ ‘More valuable than gold, more precious than life, is mercy bestowed upon he who hast not known its soft kiss’—Girard Hily, Proverbs of the Soul.”

  The monk took another lantern out of Mauvin’s pack. “Starting to run low on these,” he said, opening it and reaching for the tinder kit.

  “Better let me,” Hadrian said. “A stray spark could light you up instead.”

  The monk handed the lantern over and looked at the rest of them. “Will anyone help me bury him?”

  Degan made a sound like a laugh and limped away.

  “I will.” Magnus spoke up from where he still sat on the far side of the room. “We can use the stones from the cave-in.”

  Without a word, Hadrian got up and lifted Thranic’s body, which folded in the middle like a thick blanket. His arms splayed out to either side, white and limp. Arista watched as he left a trail of dark droplets on the dusty stone. She looked back at the space behind, at the clutter in the corner where Thranic had lain. Pots, cups, torn cloth, soiled blankets, trash—it reminded her of a mouse’s den. How long was he here? How long did he lie in this room alone waiting to die? How long will we?

  Arista stood up and, turning away from the trash and the puddle of blood, moved to the sealed door. She touched the stone and the metal rods that held it closed. The door was cold. She pressed her palms flat against the surface and laid her head close. She heard nothing. She reminded herself that it was not a living creature and did not grow restless. She could feel it, a power radiating, pushing against her like the opposite pole of a magnet. Her encounter with the oberdaza made her sensitive to magic. The new smell that had confused her before the palace was no longer a mystery. Beyond the door lay magic, but not the vague, shifting sort that defined the oberdaza. The Ghazel witch doctors appeared in her mind as shadows that darted and whirled, pulsating irregularly, but this… this was greater. The power on the other side was clear, intense, and amazing. In it, she could detect elements of the weave. She could see it with her feelings, for there was more than magic that formed the pattern. An underlying sadness dominated and endowed the spell with incredible strength. An incomprehensible grief and the strength of self-sacrifice were bound together by a single strand of hope. It frightened her, yet at the same time, she found it beautiful.