The thick layer of ash that it had created quieted her steps.
“No, Thrace!” Tomas shouted at her. “Run away!”
The Gilarabrywn paused and sniffed at the sound of the shout, sensing danger, but unable to determine its source. It tried to look in the direction of the voice.
“No, Thrace-don’t!”
Thrace ignored the cleric. She had passed beyond hearing, beyond seeing, beyond thinking. She was no longer on the hill. She was no longer in Dahlgren, but rather in a tunnel, a narrow tunnel that led inescapably to only one destination…it.
It kills people. That’s what it does.
The beast sniffed the air. She could tell it was trying to find her; it was searching for the smell of fear it created in its victims.
She had no fear. It destroyed that too.
Now she was invisible.
Without hesitation, fear, question, or regret, Thrace quietly walked up to the towering monster. She gripped the elven sword in both hands and raised it above her head. Putting the full weight of her small body into it, she thrust the broken sword into the Gilarabrywn’s body. She did not have to put so much effort into it, the blade slipped in easily.
The beast shrieked in mortal fear and confusion.
It turned, recoiling, but it was already too late. The sword penetrated all the way to the hilt. The essence that was the Gilarabrywn and the forces that bound it shattered. With the snapping of the bonds that held it fast, the world reclaimed the energy in a sudden violent outburst. The eruption of force threw Thrace and Tomas to the ground. The shock wave continued down the hill, radiating out in all directions, beyond the burnt desolation to the forest launching flocks of birds into the night.
Dazed, Tomas staggered to his feet and approached the small slender figure of Thrace Wood at the center of a cleared depression where the great Gilarabrywn once was. He walked forward in awe and fell prostrate on his knees before the girl.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” was all he said.
Chapter 15: The Heir of Novron
The sun rose brightly over the Nidwalden River. The clouds had moved off and by midmorning the sky was clear and the air cooler than it had been. A light wind skimmed across the surface of the river, raising ripples, while the sun cast a brilliant gold face upon the water. A fish jumped above the surface and fell back with a plop. Overhead, birds sang morning songs and cicadas droned.
Royce and Arista stood on the bank of the river ringing water out of their clothes. Esrahaddon waited.
“Nice robe,” the princess said.
The wizard only smiled.
Arista shivered as she looked out across the river. The trees on the far bank looked different than on their side, a different species perhaps. Arista thought they appeared prouder, straighter with fewer lower branches, and longer trunks. While the trees were impressive, there was no evidence of civilization.
“How do we know they are over there?” Arista asked.
“The elves?” Esrahaddon questioned.
“I mean, no one has seen an elf-” she glanced at Royce, “A pure blood elf-in centuries, right?”
“They are there. Thousands of them by now I should think. Tribes of the old names, with bloodlines that can be traced to the dawn of time. The Miralyith, masters of The Art, Asendwayr the hunters, Nilyndd the crafters, Eiliwin the architects, Umalyn the spiritualists, Gwydry the shipwrights, and Instarya the warriors. They are all still there, a congress of nations.”
“Do they have cities? Like we do?”
“Perhaps, but probably not like ours. There is a legend of a sacred place called Estramnadon. It is the holiest place in elven culture…at least that we humans know of. Estramnadon is said to be over there, deep in the forests. Some think it is their capital city and seat of their monarch, others speculate it is the sacred grove where the first tree-the tree planted by Muriel herself-still grows and is cared for by the Children of Ferrol. No one knows for certain. No human is likely ever to know, as the elves do not suffer the trespasses of others.”
“Really?” the princess looked at the thief with a playful smirk. “Perhaps if I knew that before I might have guessed Royce’s heritage sooner.”
Royce ignored the comment and turned to the wizard. “Can I assume you will not be returning to the village?”
Esrahaddon shook his head. “I need to leave before Luis Guy and his pack of hounds track me down. Besides, I have an heir to talk to and plans to make.”
“Then this is goodbye. I need to get back.”
“Remember to keep silent about what you saw in the tower-both of you.”
“Funny, I expected the heir and his guardian to be unknown farm boys from some place-well-like this I suppose. Someone I never heard of.”
“Life has a way of surprising you, doesn’t it?” Esrahaddon said.
Royce nodded and started to head off.
“Royce,” Esrahaddon said softly stopping him. “We know that what happened last night wasn’t pleasant. You should prepare yourself for what you’re going to find.”
“You think Hadrian’s dead,” Royce said flatly.
“I would expect so. If he is, at least know that his death may have been the sacrifice that saved our world from destruction. And while that may not comfort you, I think we both know that it would have pleased Hadrian.”
Royce thought a moment, nodded, then entered the trees and disappeared.
“He’s definitely elvish,” Arista said shaking her head and sitting down opposite Esrahaddon. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You’ve grown a beard I see.”
“You just noticed?”
“I noticed before, been kinda busy until now.”
“I can’t really shave, can I? It wasn’t a problem while I was in Gutaria, but now-does it look alright?”
“You have some grey coming in.”
“I ought to. I am nine hundred years old.”
She watched the wizard staring across the river.
“You really should practice your art. You did well in there.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t do it, not the way you taught me. I can do most of the things Arcadius demonstrated, but it’s a bit impossible to learn hand magic from a man without hands.”
“You boiled water, and you made the prison guard sneeze. Remember?”
“Yes, I’m a veritable sorceress, aren’t I?” she said sarcastically.
He sighed. “What about the rain? Have you worked on that incantation any more?”
“No, and I’m not going to. I am the Ambassador of Melengar now. I’ve put all that behind me. Given time, they may even forget I was tried for witchcraft.”
“I see,” the wizard said, disappointed.
The princess shivered in the morning chill and tried to run her fingers through her hair but caught them in tangles. Stains and wrinkles dotted her dress. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
The wizard said nothing. He appeared to be thinking.
“So,” she began, “what will you do when you find the heir?”
Esrahaddon only stared at her.
“Is it a secret?”
“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know, Arista?”
She sat trying to look naпve and offered a slight smile, “I don’t understand.”
“You aren’t sitting here shivering in a wet dress making small talk with me for nothing. You have an agenda.”
“An agenda?” she asked, not at all convincingly even for her own tastes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You want to know if what the church told you about your father’s death is true or not. You think I used you as a pawn. You are wondering if I tricked you into being an unwitting accomplice to your own father’s death.”
The act was over. She stared stunned at the wizard’s bluntness, barely breathing. She did not speak, but slowly nodded her head.
“I suspected they might come after you because they are having trouble following me.”
“Di
d you?” She asked finding her voice. “Did you orchestrate my father’s death?”
Esrahaddon let the silence hang between them a moment, then at last replied.
“Yes, Arista. I did.”
At first, the princess did not say a word. It did not seem possible that she heard him correctly. Slowly her head began to shake back and forth in disbelief.
“How…” she started to say, “How could you do that?”
“Nothing I, nor anyone else says, can explain that to you-not now at least. Perhaps someday you’ll understand.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. She brushed them away and glared at the wizard.
“Before you judge me completely, as I know you will, remember one thing. Right now, the Church of Nyphron is trying to persuade you that I am a demon, the very Apostle of Uberlin. You are likely thinking they are right. Before you damn me forever and run into the embrace of the patriarch, ask yourself these questions. Who approved your entrance into the University of Sheridan? Who talked your disapproving father into letting you attend? How did you learn about me? How was it that you found your way to a hidden prison that only a handful of people knew existed? Why were you taught to use a gemstone lock and isn’t it interesting that the very gem you used on your door was the same as the signet ring that unlocked the prison entrance? And how was it that a young girl, princess or not, was allowed to enter Gutaria Prison and leave unmolested, not once, not twice, but repeatedly for months without her activities ever being questioned or reported back to her father the king?”
“What are you saying?”
“Arista,” the wizard said, “sharks don’t eat seafood because they like it, but because chickens don’t swim. We all do the best we can with the tools we have, but at some point you have to ask yourself where the tools came from.”
She stared at him. “You knew they would kill my father. You counted on it. You even knew they would eventually kill me and Alric, and yet you pretended to be my friend, my teacher.” Her face hardened. “School’s over.” She turned her back on him and walked away.
***
When Royce reached the edge of the burnt forest, he spotted a series of colorful tents set up around the old village common. The tents displayed pennants of the Nyphron Church, and he could see several priests as well as imperial guards. Other figures moved slowly over the hill near the old castle grounds, but nowhere did he see anyone he knew.
He kept to the cover of the trees when he caught the sound of a snapping twig not too far off. Slipping around, he quickly spotted Magnus crouched in the underbrush.
The dwarf jumped in alarm and fell backward at his approach.
“Relax,” Royce whispered sitting down next to where the dwarf now lay, nervously watching the thief.
Glancing down the slope Royce realized that the dwarf had found an excellent position to watch the camp. They were on a rise behind a series of burnt trees where some of the underbrush had survived. Below they had a perfect view of each of the tent openings, the makeshift horse corral and the latrine. Royce guessed there were about thirty of them.
“What are you still doing here?” Royce asked.
“I was breaking a sword for your partner. But I’m leaving now.”
“What happened?”
“Huh? Oh, Theron and Fanen were killed.”
Royce nodded showing no outward sign of surprise or grief.
“Hadrian? Is he alive?”
The dwarf nodded, and went on to explain the events that transpired that evening.
“After it was dead, or dispelled, or whatever, Tomas and I checked on Hadrian. He was unconscious, but alive. We made him comfortable, covered him in a blanket and put a lean-to over him, the Pickering kid, and that Melengarian soldier. Before dawn, Bishop Saldur and his crew returned, dragging two wagons with them. The way I figure it, either Guy reported what happened and he was coming back with help, or they heard it when the beasty died. They pulled in and fast as rabbits, had these tents up and breakfast cooking. I spotted the sentinel in their ranks, so I hid up here. They moved Hadrian, Hilfred, and Mauvin into that white tent and soon after they put a guard on it.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, they sent a detail out to bury the dead. Most they buried on the hill up there near the castle, including Fanen, but Tomas made some big stink and they took Theron down the road to that last farm near the river and they buried him there.”
“Perhaps you forgot to mention how you found my dagger?”
“The Alverstone? I thought you had it.”
“I do,” Royce said.
Magnus reached for his boot and cursed.
“When you investigated my background, you must have stumbled across the fact that I survived my youth by picking pockets.”
“I remember something about that,” the dwarf growled.
Royce pulled Alverstone from its sheath as he glared at the dwarf.
“Look, I’m sorry about killing that damn king. It was just a job I was hired to do, okay? I wouldn’t have taken the job if it hadn’t required a uniquely challenging masonry effort. I’m not an assassin. I’m not even good enough to be considered a pathetic fighter. I’m an artisan. Truth be told, I specialize in weapons. That’s my first love, but all dwarves can cut stone so I was hired to do the tower work, then the job got changed and after half a year’s work I was going to be stiffed if I didn’t knife the old man. In hindsight, I can see I should have refused, but I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about him. Maybe he was a bad king; maybe he deserved to die; Braga certainly thought so and he was the king’s brother-in-law. I try not to involve myself in human affairs, but I was caught up in this one. It’s not something I wanted; it’s not something I looked for; it just happened. And it’s not like someone else wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t.”
“What makes you think I’m upset you killed Amrath? I’m not even mad that you trapped the tower. Closing the door on me was the mistake you made.”
Magnus inched away.
“Killing you would be as easy as-no easier than, slaughtering a fatted pig. The challenge would lie in causing the maximum amount of pain before inflicting the death.”
Magnus’ mouth opened, but no words came out.
“But you are a very lucky dwarf, because there’s a man still alive in that tent who wouldn’t like it-a man you covered in a blanket and put a lean-to over.”
Down below he spotted Arista as she entered the camp. She talked to a guard who pointed toward the white tent. She rushed to it.
Royce looked back at the dwarf and spoke clearly and evenly. “If you ever touch Alverstone again without my permission, I’ll kill you.”
Magnus looked at him bitterly then his expression changed and he raised an eyebrow. “Without your permission? So there’s a chance you’ll let me study it?”
Royce rolled his eyes. “I’m going to get Hadrian out of there. You are going to steal two of the archbishop’s horses and walk them over to the white tent without being spotted.”
“And then we can talk about the permission thing?”
Royce sighed, “Did I mention I hate dwarves?”
***
“But your grace-” Deacon Tomas protested as he stood in the large striped tent before Bishop Saldur and Luis Guy. The pudgy cleric made a poor showing of himself in his frock caked with dirt and ash, his face smudged, his fingers black.
“Look at you Tomas,” Bishop Saldur said. “You’re so exhausted you look as if you will fall down any minute. You’ve had a long two days, and you’ve been under tremendous stress for months now. It is only natural that you might see things in the dark. No one is blaming you. And we don’t think you are lying. We know that right now you believe you saw this village girl destroy the Gilarabrywn, but I think if you just take a nap and rest, when you get up you’ll find that you were mistaken about a great many things.”
“I don’t need a nap!” Tomas shouted.
“Calm down, deacon,” Saldur snapped, rising ab
ruptly to his feet. “Remember whose presence you are standing in.”
The deacon cowed and Saldur sighed. His face softened to his grandfatherly visage and he put an arm around the man’s shoulders, patting him gently, “Go to a tent and rest.”
Tomas hesitated, turned and left Saldur and Luis Guy alone.
The bishop threw himself down in the little cushioned chair beside a bowl of red berries some industrious servant managed to gather for him. He popped two in his mouth and chewed. They were bitter and he grimaced. Despite the early hour, Saldur was desperate for a glass of brandy, but none had survived the flight from the castle. Only the grace of Maribor could account for the survival of the camping gear and provisions, all of which they had lazily left in the wagons when they first arrived at the manor. In the turmoil of their exodus, they had given little thought to provisions.
That he lived at all was a miracle. He could not recall how he crossed the courtyard, or how he reached the gate. He must have run down the hill, but had no recollection of it. His memory was like a dream, vague and fading. He did remember ordering the coachman to whip the horses. The fool wanted to wait for the archbishop. The old man could barely walk and the moment the flames hit, his servants deserted him. He had as much chance of survival as Rufus.
With Archbishop Galien’s death, the command of the church’s interest in Dahlgren fell to Saldur and Guy. The two inherited a disaster of mythic proportions. They were alone in the wilderness, faced with crucial decisions. How they handled them would decide the fate of future generations. Who actually held authority remained vague. Saldur was a bishop of the church, an appointed leader, while Guy was only an arm of the security branch. Still, the sentinel actually spoke with the patriarch. Saldur liked Guy, but appreciation for his effectiveness would not prevent him from sacrificing the sentinel if necessary. If Guy still had his knights about him, Saldur was certain the sentinel would take command and he would have no choice but to accept it, but the seret were dead and Guy himself wounded. With Galien also dead, a door had opened, and Saldur planned to be the first one through.
Saldur looked at Guy. “How could you let this happen?”
The sentinel who sat with his arm in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in bandages stiffened, “I lost seven good men, and barely escaped with my life. I wouldn’t call that allowing it to happen.”
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