Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Horses thundered over the top of the hill. Arista was amazed by the elegance and grace of the elven lords, dressed in gold and blue with lion helms. With them was Modina, accompanied by Mercy and Allie, who looked exhausted.

  One of the riders dismounted, removed his helm, and approached the group. He pointed to the horn and spoke quickly in elvish. Arista could not decipher every word but caught the gist of his introduction as Irawondona of the Asendwayr, who had been the acting Steward of Erivan. He inquired who had blown the horn.

  The Patriarch stood before the elven lord and raised his arms. As he did, his features changed. His face grew longer, his nose narrowed, his brows slanted, his ears sharpened, and his eyes sparkled with a luminous green. His frame became slighter, his fingers longer, thinner. The only thing that remained unchanged was the white, near-purple hair. “Behold Mawyndulë of the Miralyith, soon to be King of Erivan, Emperor of Elan, Lord of the World.” The words were spoken slowly, deliberately, such that even Arista understood each one.

  He threw his head back, cast his arms straight out to his sides, and slowly rotated, giving them all a fair view. Everyone, including the elves, stared, stunned by the transformation.

  Mawyndulë and the elven lord spoke quickly to each other. Irawondona pointed toward Modina during the exchange. Arista was catching only bits and pieces but her heart sank when she heard Myron mutter, “Uh-oh.”

  He added, “Mawyndulë knows about Gaunt.”

  “What?” Arista asked.

  “He just told Irawondona that he blew the horn, and the elven lord said he has brought his opponent. But Mawyndulë said Modina is not the heir, that Degan is, and that Degan is hiding in the hole behind us.”

  Mawyndulë turned to face them. “I know all about your plan. Your guardian should have paid more attention to Esrahaddon’s warnings. Or did you merely forget what he told you the last time you met?”

  Arista looked at Hadrian quizzically.

  “He said a lot of things.”

  “He explained,” Mawyndulë said, “that he couldn’t tell you anything because all his conversations were being overheard.”

  “You’ve been listening?” Arista asked.

  “I paid close attention to Esrahaddon until he died, but he rarely said anything of importance. Listening to him was easy, as I knew him so well. While you were on your little trip, I monitored the dwarf. The Art did not work as well with him, but it was enough.” He looked at Magnus. “I’ll deal with you after I’m crowned. In the meantime, you might as well signal to Royce to bring Gaunt up. He’s quite safe. No one can harm him or me now that the blessing of Ferrol is upon us. We are protected from everyone. It’s only during the competition that we can be harmed and only by each other. So the last of Novron’s line is safe until dawn tomorrow. There are rules to this ritual and we must observe them.”

  A rustle in the thickets announced the approach of two figures from the mouth of the hole. Degan shuffled forward with Royce behind him. Gaunt looked sick, pale and sweaty such that his bangs stuck to his forehead.

  Mawyndulë turned to Lord Irawondona and announced in elvish, “This is the heir of Nyphron.” He then motioned toward Gaunt.

  The elven lords and an old owl-helmed elf looked skeptically at Gaunt. They appraised him for several minutes, then spoke at length with Mawyndulë. When they were finished, the elves, along with Mawyndulë, returned up the hillside, leaving the party in the snow.

  “What happened?” Hadrian asked.

  “The challenge will begin at sunrise tomorrow,” Myron explained.

  The elves made camp on the crest of the hill. The rest of them gathered outside the Hovel, which hid in the shelter of holly trees partway up the slope. Hadrian built a fire and asked the boys to gather more wood, which they did, restricting their search toward the bottom of the hill. The process was slow, as the boys continued to look over their shoulders toward the top of the hill.

  Modina and the girls were permitted to join their own kind and she found a place for the girls near the fire before approaching Arista. She was dressed in a dark lavish gown and raised the hem to pick her way around the others.

  “What’s going on?” the empress asked.

  Arista reached out and took her hand the moment she was near. “It will be fine. Degan, as Novron’s last descendant, will fight tomorrow. If he wins, he’ll become ruler of the elves and they must obey him.”

  Modina’s face was creased with worry. She looked at those circled around the fire. “If Degan loses, we have no hope. You have no idea what the elves are capable of. Aquesta was destroyed in just a few minutes. The walls fell and every building not made of stone has been burned. I’m afraid to even consider the number of dead. I tried, I tried everything, but… they walked through us with so little effort. If Degan fails…”

  “He won’t fail,” Hadrian said. “Arista has a plan.”

  “I can’t take the credit,” she said. “It was Esrahaddon’s idea. I think this was his intent from the moment he escaped Gutaria.”

  “What is it?” the empress asked.

  Arista and Hadrian exchanged looks before Arista said, “I can’t tell you.”

  Modina raised her eyebrows.

  “The Patriarch is really an elf and a very powerful wizard. He’s the one who challenged Degan. Apparently he has the ability to eavesdrop on conversations like this one.”

  Modina nodded. “Then don’t say a word. I trust you. You haven’t let me down yet.”

  “How are the girls?” Arista asked.

  “Frightened. Allie has been asking about her father and Elden. I assume they are…”

  “Yes, they were killed. As was my brother.”

  Modina nodded. “I’m sorry. If there is anything I…” The empress choked up and paused. She wiped her eyes. “Dear, sweet Maribor, I swear Gaunt can have the throne and I will go back to farming for the rest of my life and be content with an empty stomach if only he can win. I want you to know that we are all in your debt for what you have done, for the sacrifices of Alric, Wyatt, and Elden. Whatever happens tomorrow, you are all heroes today.”

  Hadrian, Royce, and Mauvin took Gaunt aside for some last-minute sparring tips. Arista focused her attention on the hilltop, where multicolored tents rose to the sounds of alien voices singing ancient songs. The tension around the fire was palpable. Out of everyone, except perhaps Gaunt, Monsignor Merton showed the greatest anxiety. He sat on an upturned bucket, staring into the fire. Before long Myron sat beside him and the two had a lengthy talk.

  Myron was the only one who showed no signs of concern. After speaking to Merton, he spent his time with the boys, discovering how they had built the Hovel and asking numerous questions about how the horses had fared while they were gone. They told him how the cold cracked their spit and the monk marveled at their tales. He helped them cook a fine dinner and generally kept the boys busy with chores both in preparation and cleanup.

  The sun set and darkness enveloped them save for the light of the campfire. It was not unlike the one Arista had sat beside less than a year earlier and very close to the same spot. A little farther up the slope, perhaps. So much had happened, so much had changed since the night she had ridden with Etcher. Amberton Lee was a different place now. With him she had felt lost in the wilderness. Now she was at the center of the world.

  Ancient stones upon the Lee

  Dusts of memories gone we see

  Once the center, once the all

  Lost forever, fall the wall.

  She too was different. Perhaps they all were.

  “Why don’t you and the girls bed down in the shelter there?” Hadrian said to Modina, seeing the girls yawning. “You don’t mind, do you, boys?”

  They all shook their heads, staring, as they had been for some time, at the empress.

  “Where will Degan sleep?” Modina asked, looking across the fire to where Degan was repeating the girls’ yawns.

  “Near the fire with the rest of us, I suppose,”
Hadrian responded.

  The empress lifted her voice and said, “Degan, you will sleep with me in the shelter tonight.”

  Degan rolled his eyes. “I appreciate the offer—I do—but really this isn’t the night for—”

  “I need you rested. The fate of our race depends on your victory tomorrow. The shelter is the most comfortable place. You will sleep there, do you understand?”

  He nodded with an expression that showed no will to argue.

  Modina stood, looked at Arista, and then embraced and kissed her. “Again, thank you.”

  She went around the fire, thanking, embracing, and kissing each. Then, wiping her face, Modina returned to the shelter of the Hovel.

  “Do you think it will work?” Arista asked Hadrian, who smirked. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. This was my idea, after all.”

  “And a damn fine one at that. Have I mentioned how smart you are?”

  She scowled at him. “I’m not that smart—you’re just blinded by love.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  Her expression softened. “No.”

  He sat propped against one of the trees and she lay down in his arms. When he squeezed her, she felt a weight lifted and she reveled in the warmth and safety of his embrace. Her eyes drifted to the stars. She wanted to tell them not to leave, to order the sun never to rise, because for this one moment everything was perfect. She could stay as she was, stay in Hadrian’s arms, and forget about what was to come.

  “One of the great disappointments about living so long is that when the moment of triumph comes, there is no one to share it with,” Mawyndulë said as he stepped into the ring of firelight, looking at them with a pleasant smile. His guards followed and placed his chair for him. Mawyndulë sat, showing no disappointment with their glares.

  Arista closed her eyes and reached out delicately. She sensed Mawyndulë’s power. In her mind, magic appeared as a light in darkness. The oberdaza flickered like torches but Mawyndulë burned like the sun. She avoided him and focused on his guards. They were not men or even elves. They were the same as the Gilarabrywn—pure magic.

  “It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?” the old elf said. “And what a pitiful excuse for a fire.”

  Mawyndulë clapped his hands and the flames grew tall and bright. The boys jerked back in fear. Monsignor Merton got up and took several steps back, his eyes wide.

  The old man held his hands out to the licking flames and rubbed them together. “Ah, much better. My old bones can’t take the cold like they used to.”

  “Magic,” Merton whispered, “is forbidden by the church.”

  “Of course it is. I don’t want mongrels practicing my Art; it’s insulting. Would you like it if I wore your clothes? Took them out, got them all dirty, and made fun of them in public? Of course not, and I won’t allow humans to defile what is mine.”

  “How is magic… yours?” Royce asked.

  “Inheritance. My family invented the Art, so it is mine. Wretched thieves stole it, so I took it back. Esrahaddon was the last of the thieves. He used my Art to destroy Percepliquis.” The old man’s eyes drifted off, looking at something unseen. “He killed all of them—did it to stop me, but he failed. Not only did I survive, but I was able to keep him alive as well. I needed to know where the boy was, you see. I thought in time he would relent and eventually he did, although unknowingly.” The old man smirked and looked back at them. “Is anyone else hungry?”

  Mawyndulë spoke words unknown to Arista and made a gesture with his fingers, and before them a banquet of food appeared. A tableful of hams, ducks, and quails were roasted to bronze perfection and wreathed in vegetables, candied walnuts, and berries.

  “What’s wrong, Merton?” Mawyndulë asked without bothering to look at the priest, who had an expression of horror across his face. “Are you shocked? Of course you are, and with good reason, but please eat. The food is delicious and I do so hate to dine alone. Go ahead, everyone, dig in.”

  Mawyndulë did not wait for them and began tearing off chucks of ham. Glass goblets appeared on the table and filled themselves with a deep-red liquid. The Patriarch picked up one and drained it to wash down the ham. The goblet was full again before he set it back onto the table.

  No one else touched the food.

  “Where is he?” Mawyndulë asked. “Where is my worthy adversary? Hasn’t run off, has he? The rules clearly state that if he fails to show, I win by default.”

  “He’s sleeping,” Hadrian said.

  “Ah, getting a good night’s rest. Very wise. Personally I can never sleep before these things. Gaunt takes after his ancestor. Nyphron slept the night before too. I knew him, you know, your beloved Novron. Ah, but yes, you already discovered that little fact. Here’s something the books won’t tell you. He was an ass. All those tales about him saving humanity for the love of a farmer’s daughter are absolute rubbish. He was no different than anyone else, and like everyone, he sought power. His tribe was small and weak, so he harnessed all of you as fodder for his battles. The Instarya are the best warriors, of course. I will grant them that. There’s no point in denying it. That is their art, and he taught it to your knights. Still, humans would not have won if not for Cenzlyor, who taught them my Art as well.

  “Novron was so arrogant, so sure of himself. He played the wise, forgiving conqueror at Avempartha and those in power were more than willing to bow before him. They were all frightened children at his feet—the boy from the inferior clan. Your great god was just a vindictive brat bent on revenge.”

  The old man bit into a leg of duck and sat back with a glass of wine in his other hand. He leaned on one arm of the chair and looked up toward the stars. He followed the duck with a fresh strawberry and swooned. “Oh, you’ve got to try one of these. They’re perfect. That’s the problem with the real thing—you can never find them at their peak. Or they’re too big or too small, too tart or sweet. No, I must admit, I pride myself on creating a good strawberry.”

  He licked his fingers and looked at them. No one moved.

  “It was you,” Merton said at last. “The one you spoke of at the cathedral, the ancient enemy controlling everything.”

  “Of course,” the old man said. “I told you that if you thought hard enough, you’d figure it out, didn’t I?” He picked a grape this time but grimaced as he chewed. “See, I’m not nearly as good at these. Far too sour.”

  “You are evil.”

  “What do you know of evil?” Mawyndulë’s tone turned harsh. “You know nothing about it.”

  “I do,” Royce said.

  Mawyndulë peered at the thief and nodded. “Then you know that evil is not born, but created. I was turned into what I have become. The council did that to me. They made me believe what they said. They put the dagger in my hand and sent me out with words of blessing. Elders who I revered, who I respected and trusted as the wisest of my people, told me what needed to be done. I believed them when they said the fate of our race was upon me. Back then, we were as you are now, a flickering flame in a growing wind. Nyphron had taken Avempartha. The council convinced me that I was our nation’s last hope. They told me my father was too stubborn to make peace and that he would see us all die. As long as he breathed, as long as he was king, we were doomed. No one dared move against him, as the murderer would pay first in this life and then in the next.”

  Mawyndulë plucked another strawberry but hesitated to eat. He held it between his fingers, rolling it.

  “Ten priests of Ferrol swore I would be absolved. Because the existence of the elven race was at stake, they convinced me that Ferrol would see me as a savior, not a murderer. The council agreed to support me, to waive the law. They were so sincere and I was… so young. As my father died, I saw him cry, not for himself but for me, because he knew what they had done, and what my fate would be.”

  “Why are you here?” Arista asked.

  Mawyndulë seemed to have just become aware of them around him. “What?”

  “I asked why
you were here. Won’t they allow you in the elven camp? Are you still an outcast?”

  Mawyndulë glanced over his shoulder. “After I am king, they will accept me. They will do whatever I say.”

  He shifted in his seat and stroked one of the long arms of the chair. It was of unusual design but strangely familiar in shape. It was not until he moved that Arista realized she had seen similar ones in Avempartha. The Patriarch had brought his own chair with him—not from Aquesta, not from Ervanon, but from home.

  He hasn’t touched anything but that chair.

  She imagined Mawyndulë sealed in the Crown Tower, living in isolation, surrounded by elven furnishing, doing what he could to separate himself.

  Mawyndulë looked over to where Magnus sat. “I would have honored our agreement, dwarf. Your people could have had Delgos once more. I have no use for that rock. Of course, now I will have to kill you. As for the rest, you’ve done me a great service by retrieving the horn and for that I am tempted to let you all live. I could make you court slaves. You will be wonderful novelties—the last humans! A shame you die so quickly, but I suppose I could breed you. The princess looks healthy enough. I could raise a small domestic herd. You could perform at feasts. Oh, don’t look so distraught. It’s better than dying.”

  Mauvin’s expression hardened and Arista noticed the muscles on his sword arm tighten. She threw him a stern look. He glared back but relaxed.

  “Why bother to create the New Empire,” Arista asked quickly, “just to destroy it?”

  “I broke Esrahaddon’s spell and released the Gilarabrywn from Avempartha to show my brothers how weak the human world is, to encourage them to march the moment the Uli Vermar ended. Others took it upon themselves to use the occasion to their advantage. Still, I took advantage of Saldur, Galien, and Ethelred’s blundering to press for the eradication of the half-breeds. While my word will be undisputed as king, killing any who bear even a small amount of elven blood might not be popular with my kin once I assume the throne. And I cannot abide having their abomination survive. I was the one who started the idea that elves were slaves in the Old Empire. It made it easier, you see—it is so simple to hate those you feel are inferior.”