Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

“I said restrain her!”

  “There’s no need to shout,” Modina said. Her voice was soft, serene. Modina moved toward Saldur, walking through the puddle. Her feet left macabre tracks of blood.

  Panic welled in Saldur’s chest. He looked at the guards, then back at the empress, who approached with the knifelike glass in her hand.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded of the soldiers. “Can’t you see she’s crazy? She killed Regent Ethelred!”

  “Your forgiveness, Your Grace,” one guard said, “but she is the empress. The descendant of Novron. The child of god.”

  “She’s insane!”

  “No,” Modina said, cold and confident. “I’m not.”

  Saldur’s fear mingled with a burning rage. “You might have these guards fooled, but you won’t succeed. Men loyal to me—the whole Southern Imperial Army—are already on their way.”

  “I know,” she told him in her disturbingly dispassionate voice. “I know everything.” She nodded at the guard and added, “As is fitting for the daughter of Novron.

  “I know, for example, that you killed Edith Mon for aiding Arista, which incidentally she didn’t—I did. The princess lived for weeks in this very room. I know you arranged to have Gaunt captured and imprisoned. I know you hired Merrick Marius to kill Esrahaddon. I know you made a deal with him that handed the port city of Tur Del Fur over to the Ba Ran Ghazel. I know how you bargained with a dwarf named Magnus to betray Royce Melborn in exchange for a dagger. I know you convinced Hadrian to kill Sir Breckton in the tournament. I know you slipped Breckton a war tip. Only neither knight killed the other. I like to think I had a hand in that.

  “You thought you had anticipated everything, but you hadn’t expected a riot. You didn’t know about the rumors circulating through the throngs of the city to expect treachery at the joust as proof of your treason. Yesterday’s crowd wasn’t watching for entertainment—but for confirmation of that rumor.

  “I also know that you were planning to kill me.” She glanced down at Ethelred’s body. “That was actually his idea. He doesn’t care for women. You, on the other hand, just wanted to lock me up again in that hole. That hole that nearly drove me mad.”

  “How do you know all this?” Saldur felt real fear. This girl, this child, this peasant’s daughter had slain the Gilarabrywn. She had butchered Ethelred, and now she knew—She knew everything. It was as if… as if she really were…

  She smiled.

  “Voices came to me. They told me everything.” She paused, seeing the shock on his face. “No, the words were not Novron’s. The truth is worse than that. Your mistake was appointing Amilia, who loved and cared for me. She freed me from my cell and brought me to this room. After so many months in the dark and cold, I was starved for sunlight. I spent hours sitting beside the window.” She turned and looked at the opening in the wall behind her. “I had nothing to live for and had decided to kill myself. The opening was too small, but when I tried to fit through it, I heard the voices. Your office window is right below mine. It’s easier to hear you in the summer, but even with your window closed, I can still make out the words.

  “When I first came here, I was only a stupid farm girl, and I didn’t care what was being said. After my family died, I didn’t care about anything. As time went on, I listened and learned. Still there was nothing to care about—no one to live for. Then one day a little mouse whispered a secret in my ear that changed everything. I learned I have a new family, a family that loves me, and no monster will ever take them from me again.”

  “You won’t get away with this! You’re just a—a—”

  “The word you are searching for is empress.”

  That morning Archibald woke feeling miserable, and his spirits only fell as the day progressed. He did not bother going to the cathedral. He could not bear to see Ethelred taking her hand. Instead, he wandered the palace, listening to the sounds of the peasants shouting outside. There was the blast of an army trumpet coming from somewhere in the city. The Southern Army must be arriving.

  A pity, he thought.

  Even though he would fare poorly at the hands of the mob, should the rioters breach the gate or walls, he still reveled in the knowledge that the regents would suffer more.

  He entered the great hall, which was empty except for the servants readying it for the wedding feast. They scurried about like ants, feverishly carrying plates, wiping chairs, and placing candles. A few of the ants bowed and offered the obligatory my lord as he passed. Archibald ignored them.

  Reaching another corridor, he found himself walking toward the main stair. Archibald was halfway up the first flight before he realized where he was headed. The empress would not be there, but he was drawn to her room just the same. Modina would be at the altar by now, her room empty. A vacant space never to be filled again now that she was… He refused to think about it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of figures. Turning, he spotted Merrick Marius standing at the end of the corridor, speaking to someone Archibald did not recognize—an old man wrapped in a cloak. When they spotted him, the pair abruptly slipped around a corner. Archibald wondered whom Merrick was speaking with, as he was always up to no good. Just then, a commotion overhead interrupted his thoughts. Hearing a man cry out, he ran for the stairs.

  When he reached the fourth floor, he found a guard lying dead. Blood dripped down the marble steps in tiny rivers. Archibald drew his sword and continued to climb. On the fifth floor he discovered two more slain guards.

  In the corridor ahead, Luis Guy was fighting another palace guard. Archibald had almost reached them when the sentinel delivered a quick thrust and the guard fell as dead as the others.

  “Thank Maribor you’ve arrived!” Saldur’s voice echoed from Modina’s room as Guy entered the chamber. The regent sounded shaken. “We have to kill her. She’s been faking all this time and eavesdropping. She knows everything!”

  “But the wedding?” Guy protested.

  “Forget the wedding! Ethelred is dead. Kill her and we’ll tell everyone she is still sick. I will rule until we can find a replacement for Ethelred. We will announce that the new emperor married her in a private ceremony.”

  “No one will believe that.”

  “We don’t have a choice. Now kill her!”

  Archibald peered in. Guy stood, sword in hand, with Saldur. Beyond them, near the window, was Modina in her red-stained nightdress. Presumably the blood belonged to Ethelred, who lay dead on the floor. Sunlight glinted off a shard of glass gripped tightly in the empress’s hands.

  “How do I know you’re not going to just saddle me with both their murders?”

  “Do you see another way out of this? If we let her live, we are all dead men. Look around you. Look at the guards you just killed. Everyone believes she really is the empress. You have to kill her!”

  Guy nodded and advanced on her.

  Modina took a step back, still holding the shard out.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the Earl of Chadwick announced as he entered. “I hope this isn’t a private party. You see, I was growing bored. Waiting for this wedding is very dull.”

  “Get out of here, Archie,” Saldur snapped. “We don’t have time for you. Get out!”

  “Yes, I can see you’re very busy, aren’t you? You have to hurry up and kill the empress, but before you do… perhaps I can be of assistance. I would like to propose an alternative.”

  “Such as?” Saldur asked.

  “I’ve wanted to marry Modina for some time—and still do. Now that the old bugger’s dead”—he looked down at Ethelred’s body and offered a wry smile—“why not choose me? I’ll marry her and things can go on as planned, only with me on the throne instead of Ethelred. Nothing has to change. You could say I dueled him for the right of her hand. I won and she swooned for me.”

  “We can’t let her leave the room. She’ll talk,” Saldur said.

  Archibald considered this as he strolled around Saldur. He eye
d the empress, who stood defiantly even though Guy’s sword was only a few feet away.

  “Consider this. I’ll hold the point of a dagger hidden by my cloak at her ribs during the ceremony. She either does as we want or dies on the altar. If I kill her in front of all the crowned heads, neither of you will be held responsible. You can claim innocence of the whole affair. Her death will fall on me—that crazy lunatic Archie Ballentyne.”

  Saldur thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, we can’t risk letting her out of this room. If she gets to people, she can take control. Too many are devoted to her. It has to end here. We’ll pick up the pieces afterward. Kill her, Guy.”

  “Wait!” Archibald said quickly. “If she’s going to die—let me do it. I know it sounds strange, but if I can’t have her, I will take some satisfaction from denying her to anyone else.”

  “You are a twisted little git, aren’t you, Ballentyne?” Guy said with a disgusted look.

  Archibald moved closer. For each step he took forward, Modina took a step back, until she had no more room to retreat.

  Archibald raised his sword, and while keeping his eyes focused on Modina, he plunged the blade toward Luis Guy. The sentinel did not see the attack coming, but Archibald’s ruse prevented an accurate strike. His thrust landed poorly. Instead of piercing Guy’s heart, the blade glanced off a rib and merely sliced through his side. Archibald quickly withdrew his blade, turned, and tried to strike again. Guy was faster.

  The earl felt Guy’s blade enter his chest. The last thing Archibald Ballentyne saw before he died was Modina Novronian running past Saldur, slicing his arm as he unsuccessfully tried to stop her.

  Royce’s head turned abruptly.

  “What—” Hadrian began, but stopped when Royce held up a hand.

  Getting to his feet in one fluid motion, Royce paused mid-stride on a single foot, listening. He waited a moment and then moved swiftly to the cell door, which admitted the light. He lay down and placed his ear to the crack at the bottom.

  “What is it?” Hadrian asked.

  “Fighting,” he replied at last.

  “Fighting? Who?” Hadrian asked.

  “I can’t hear the color of their uniforms.” Royce smirked. “Soldiers, though. I hear swords on armor.”

  They all looked at the door. Soon Hadrian heard it too. Very faint at first, like the rustle of leaves in autumn, but then he picked out the sounds of steel on steel and the unmistakable cries of men in pain. Within the prison, new sounds rose—the main entrance opened, shouts rang out, and footsteps echoed down the hall.

  Royce picked up the sword he had brought and held it out toward Hadrian.

  He shook his head. “Give it to Breckton. I doubt I can even hold it.”

  Royce nodded, handed the weapon to the knight, and raced down the hall with Alverstone drawn.

  Breckton left Amilia’s side and moved to stand in front of them all. Hadrian knew whoever was coming would have to kill the knight to get by.

  Hard heels and soles echoed off the stone. A man cried out in terror.

  “By Mar!” Hadrian heard Royce say. “What are you doing here?”

  “Where is she?” responded a young man’s voice. Hadrian recognized him but could not understand how he could possibly be there.

  Torchlight filled the hall, growing brighter as footsteps hurried near. The group appeared first as dark silhouettes, the prisoners wincing at the brilliance. Hadrian raised an arm to shield his eyes.

  “Alric? Mauvin?” Hadrian asked, stunned, then quickly added, “Breckton, stop! Don’t fight!”

  The King of Melengar and his best friend were leading a party of men into the dungeon. Renwick, Ibis Thinly, and several others Hadrian did not know crowded the stone corridor. When Alric Essendon saw the prisoners, he wavered and a sickened expression crossed his face.

  “You two—go back.” Alric barked orders to his retinue. “Fetch stretchers.” He raced to his sister’s side. “Arista! Good Maribor, what have they done to you?” Over his shoulder he shouted, “Bring water! Bring bandages and more light!”

  “You’re not looking too good, my friend,” Mauvin Pickering said, kneeling beside Hadrian. Mauvin was dressed in shimmering mail, his blood-spattered tabard bearing the crest of the Essendon falcon.

  “They have indeed treated you poorly, sir,” Renwick agreed, looking distraught. He was also dressed in bloodstained mail, and his face and hair were thick with sweat.

  “I don’t understand,” Royce said. “Last we heard, Drondil Fields was under siege and about to fall.”

  “It was,” Mauvin replied. “Then the damndest thing happened. The flag of truce went up from the vanguard of the Northern Imperial Army. A rider advanced and asked permission to speak at the gates. He explained that new orders had arrived along with a personal message to King Alric. If that wasn’t strange enough, the personal guard of Empress Modina had delivered them.”

  He nodded toward a palace guard who was providing water to Amilia. “His name is Gerald. Anyway, the message said that Regents Ethelred and Saldur were traitors, and they were keeping the empress a prisoner in her own palace. It also said the war against Melengar was their personal quest for power, and that their commander, Sir Breckton, was either dead by treachery or falsely imprisoned and awaiting execution.”

  Hadrian started to speak, but Mauvin stopped him. “Wait… wait… it gets better. The orders commanded the acting leader of the Northern Army to cease all aggression against Melengar, extend the empress’s sincerest apologies to King Alric, and return to Aquesta with all haste. The messenger went on to explain that Arista was scheduled for execution on Wintertide, and Empress Modina requested Alric to send whatever assistance he could spare.”

  “What did Alric say?” Hadrian asked Mauvin, as the king was consumed with aiding his sister.

  “Are you kidding? He figured it was a ploy. Some trick to get us to come out. We all thought so. Then Alric yells down, more as a joke than anything, ‘To prove you are telling the truth, lay down your weapons!’ We laughed real hard until the commander, a guy named Sir Tibin—who’s a decent enough fellow once you get to know him—did just that. We all stood on the parapet watching in disbelief as the Imperialists made this huge pile of spears, swords, and shields.

  “That convinced Alric. He told them that not only would he send help, but he would personally lead the detachment. We rode day and night and expected to have a rough time breaching the city walls, but when we arrived, the gates were open. The people were rioting in the empress’s name and shouting for Ethelred’s and Saldur’s heads. We stormed the palace and found only token resistance—just some foot soldiers and a few seret.”

  “Your sword has blood on it,” Hadrian noted, pointing to Mauvin’s blade.

  “Yeah, funny that. I was determined never to draw it again, but when the fighting started, it just kind of came out by itself.”

  “What about Modina?” Amilia asked. “Is she… is she…”

  Gerald’s face was grave.

  “What?” Amilia begged.

  “There was an unfortunate incident in her bedroom this morning,” the guard said.

  Tears rose in Amilia’s eyes. “Did she…”

  “She killed Regent Ethelred.”

  “She what?”

  “She stabbed him with a piece of broken glass from her mirror. She escaped an attempt on her life and ran to the courtyard. She rallied the soldiers who were loyal to her. When we arrived, she was ordering her men about like a seasoned general. Her troops managed to open the palace gates for us. Along with the Melengarians and the Northern Army, we suppressed the remaining seret and the palace guards loyal to the regents.”

  “Where is she now?” Amilia asked.

  “She’s on her throne, accepting vows of allegiance from the monarchs, nobles, and knights—everyone that had come for the wedding.”

  Men with stretchers appeared in the hall. Amilia turned to Sir Breckton. With tears in her eyes, she let out an aw
kward laugh and said, “You were right. She did save us.”

  CHAPTER 19

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  Modina stood alone on the little hill just beyond the city. This was the first time she had been outside the palace gates in more than a year. Four men with pickaxes had worked the better part of three days, cutting through the frozen ground to make a hole deep enough for the grave. What had taken days to dig was filled in just minutes, leaving a dark mound on a field of white.

  Her reunion with the world was bittersweet, because her first act was to bury a friend. The gravediggers tried to explain it was customary to wait until spring, but Modina insisted. She had to see him put to rest.

  Seventeen soldiers waited at the base of the hill. Some trotted a perimeter on horseback, while others kept a watchful eye on her or the surrounding area. As she stood quietly in that bleak landscape, her robe shimmered and flapped in the wind like gossamer.

  “You did this to me,” she accused the dirt mound before her.

  Modina had not seen him since Dahlgren. She knew of him the way she knew about everything.

  Saldur enjoyed the sound of his own voice, which made him an excellent tutor. The regent even talked to himself when no one else was around. When he did not know something, he always summoned experts to the sanctity of his office, the one place he felt safe from prying ears. Most of the names and places had been meaningless at first, but with repetition, everything became clear. Modina learned of Androus Billet from Rhenydd, who had murdered King Urith, Queen Amiter, and their children. Androus succeeded where Percy Braga had failed when trying to seize control of Melengar. She learned how Monsignor Merton, though loyal to the church, was becoming a liability because he was a true believer. She heard that the regents could not decide if King Roswort of Dunmore’s biggest asset was his cowardice or his greed. She learned the names of Cornelius and Cosmos DeLur, men the regents saw as genuine threats unless properly controlled. Their influence on trade was crucial to maintaining imperial stability.