Percepliquis

CHAPTER 26

I love this chamber,” Arista said as they spread out blankets on the same flat rock. Overhead the glowworms glimmered and winked, and she noticed for the first time how much she missed seeing the sky.

Magnus gathered his rocks in the center once more. “This is nothing compared to the wonders that I have seen in the deep. My grandfather once took me into the mountains of the Dithmar Range of Trent to a place only he knew. He told me that I needed to know where I came from. He took me deep into a crevasse to where a river went underground. We disappeared inside for weeks. My mother and father were furious when we finally returned. They didn’t want me to get ideas. They had already given up, but my grandfather-he knew.”

Magnus sparked a stone against another. “The things he showed me were amazing. Chambers hundreds of times the size of this one made of shimmering crystal so that a single glow stone could make it bright as day. Stone cathedrals with pillars and teeth, and waterfalls that dropped so far you could not hear the roar. Everything down there was so vast, so wide, so big-we felt immeasurably small. It is sometimes hard to believe in Drome, seeing what has become of his people, but in places like this, and certainly in halls like the ones my grandfather showed me, it’s like seeing the face of god firsthand.”

Arista spread her blanket next to Hadrian.

“What are you trying to do there, Magnus?” Hadrian asked.

“Provide a little light. There are lots of this kind of stone here. My grandfather showed me how to make them burn-smolder, really.”

“Let me help.” Arista made a modest motion and the trio of rocks ignited and burned as a perfect campfire.

The dwarf frowned. “No, no. Stop it. I can get it.”

Arista clapped and the fire vanished. “I just wanted to help.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not natural.”

“And making rocks glow by slamming them together is?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes-if you’re a dwarf.”

Magnus got his rocks glowing and the rest gathered around them to eat. They were each down to their last meals and hoped to emerge aboveground the following day, or the last leg of the trip would be a hungry one.

“Aha!” Myron said. He had laid his books out near the rocks, giddy that there was enough light to read by.

“Discover the proper pronunciation to another name?” Hadrian asked. “Is Degan’s real name Gwyant?”

“Hum? Oh, no, I found Mawyndule-the one Antun Bulard and Esrahaddon spoke of.”

“You found him?”

“Yes, in this book. Ever since I read Mr. Bulard’s last scribbled words, I’ve been trying to find information on him. I reasoned that he must have read something shortly before he died. As these were the only books he had with him in the library, it stood to reason that Mawyndule was mentioned somewhere in one of them. Wouldn’t you know it would be in the last book I read? Migration of Peoples by Princess Farilane. It is really a very biased accounting of how the Instarya clan took control of the elven empire. But it mentions Nyphron, the horn, and Mawyndule.”

“What does it say?” Arista asked.

“It says the elves were constantly warring between the various tribes, and quite a bloody and violent people until they obtained the horn.”

“I mean, what does it say about Mawyndule?”

“Oh.” Myron looked embarrassed. “I don’t know. I haven’t read that yet. I just saw his name.”

“Then let’s be quiet and let the man read.”

Everyone remained silent, staring at the monk as he scanned the pages. Arista wondered if all the glaring distracted Myron, but as he rapidly turned page after page of dense script, she realized that the monk was unflappable with a book before him.

“Oh,” Myron finally said.

“ ‘Oh’ what?” Arista asked.

“I know why the horn didn’t make a sound when Degan blew it.”

“Well?” Hadrian asked.

The monk looked up. “You were right. Like you said in the tomb, it’s a horn of challenge.”

“And?”

“Degan’s already king. He can’t challenge himself, so it made no sound.”

“What does all this have to do with Mawyndule?” Arista asked.

Myron shrugged. “Still reading.”

The monk returned his attention to the book.

“We should be out tomorrow, right?” Arista asked Hadrian, who nodded. “How long have we been down here?”

Hadrian shrugged and looked to Royce.

The thief, having completed his survey of the perimeter, took a seat around the glow of the rocks with the rest of them and fished in his pack for his meal. “At least a week.”

“What will we find up there?” she asked herself as much as anyone else. “What if we’re too late?”

“So the Uli Vermar is the reign of a king,” Myron said. “Usually three thousand years-the average life span of an elf, apparently.”

“Really?” Mauvin asked, and glanced at Royce. “How old are you?”

“Not that old.”

“Remember the emperors in the tomb?” Arista said. “Mixing elven blood with human reduces the life span.”

“Yeah, but he’ll still outlive everyone here, except maybe Gaunt, right?”

“Why me?” Gaunt, who had been miserably picking at the remains of his meal, looked up.

“You’re an elf too.”

Gaunt grimaced. “I’m an elf?”

“You’re related to Novron, right?”

“But… I don’t want to be an elf.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Royce smirked.

“Ah, here it is,” Myron said. “Mawyndule was a member of the Miralyith, and during the time before Novron, they were the ruling tribe.” He paused and, looking up, added, “Unlike us, elves don’t have consistent nobility. Whichever tribe the king is from becomes the ruling one and holds power over the rest, but only for one generation, or the length of the Uli Vermar. Then they face the challenge and if a new king wins the throne, his tribe becomes the new ruling elite.”

“But not anyone in the tribe can challenge for the chance to be king, I’ll bet,” Gaunt said. “There is still a hereditary nobility in the tribes, right? There always is.”

“For once I have to side with him,” Royce said. “People might like to give the appearance of giving up power, but actually giving it up-that doesn’t happen.”

“Technically, I think anyone can challenge,” Myron explained. “But true, traditionally it is the leader of a given tribe. However, he is elected by the clan leaders.”

“Interesting,” Mauvin said. “A society without nobility, where leaders are elected. See, Gaunt? You really are an elf.”

“So someone blows the horn, fights, wins the challenge, and becomes king,” Arista stated. “He’s expected to rule for three thousand years, but what if he doesn’t? If he dies in an accident, then the crown goes to his next of kin. That part I get. But what happens if the king dies and doesn’t have any blood relatives? Then what?”

“That would also end the Uli Vermar,” Myron said. “And the first person to blow the horn then becomes the new king, and he then presents it to anyone else to challenge him. And that’s exactly what appears to have happened.” Myron tapped the page in the book. “After the battle of Avempartha, as Nyphron was poised to invade his homeland-”

“Wait a second,” Mauvin said. “Are Nyphron and Novron the same person?”

“Yes,” Myron, Arista, and Hadrian all said together.

“Just as Teshlor is the bastardized pronunciation of the elf warrior Techylor, Novron is the bastardized form of Nyphron. So as I was saying, Nyphron was poised to invade his homeland when the Uli Vermar ended, and the elven high council presented the horn to Novron, making him king and ending the war.”

“The Uli Vermar ended just then? That sounds awfully convenient,” Royce said. “I’m guessing the elven king didn’t die of natural causes.”

Myron looked back down and read aloud. “ ‘And so it came to pass that in the night of the day of the third turn, thus was sent Mawyndule of the tribe Miralyith. And by the council he was thus charged with the…’ ” Myron stopped speaking, but his eyes raced across the page.

“What is it?” Arista asked, but Myron raised a finger to stall her.

They all watched as Myron reached up and turned another page, his eyes widening, his eyebrows rising.

“By Mar, monk!” Magnus erupted. “Stop reading and tell us.”

Myron looked up with a startled expression. “Mawyndule murdered the elven king.”

“And if he had any children, they were also murdered, weren’t they?”

“No,” Myron said, surprising Royce. “His only son survived.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Arista said. “If his son was alive, why didn’t he become king? Why did the Uli Vermar end?”

“Because,” Myron replied, “Mawyndule was his son.”

It took a moment for this to register. The timing was different for each of them as around the circle of flickering light, they each made a sound of understanding.

“So Mawyndule couldn’t become king because he had committed murder?” Hadrian asked.

“Regicide,” Myron corrected. “Significantly more deplorable in elvish society, for it places at risk the very foundation of their civilization and the peace that Ferrol granted them with the gift of the horn. As a result Mawyndule was banished-stricken from elvish society and cursed by Ferrol, thereby barred from Alysin, the elvish afterlife.”

“So why did he do it?” Arista asked.

“Princess Farilane doesn’t actually say. Perhaps no one knows.”

“So Novron blew the horn and became king and that ended the war.” Hadrian finished the last of his meal and folded up his pack.

“That was certainly the plan,” Myron said. “No one was supposed to blow the horn after Novron did. No one was supposed to challenge his rule. According to the laws of the horn, if it is presented but no challenger blows the horn within the course of a day, then the king retains his crown.”

“But someone challenged?”

“Mawyndule,” Myron said. “As it happens there are no restrictions on who can blow the horn other than they must be of elven blood. Even an outcast, even one cursed by Ferrol, can still challenge. And if he wins-”

“If he wins, he’s back in,” Royce finished.

“Yes.”

“But he lost, right?” Mauvin asked.

“Novron was a battle-hardened veteran of a lengthy war,” Hadrian concluded. “And Myron said Mawyndule was just a kid?”

“Yes.” The monk nodded. “It was a quick and humiliating defeat.”

“But this doesn’t make sense,” Arista said. “Esrahaddon told us he was convinced that Mawyndule was still alive.”

“Nyphron did not kill Mawyndule. While the challenge is usually a fight to the death, Nyphron let him live. Perhaps because he was so young, or maybe because as an outcast he was no threat. What is known is that Mawyndule was exiled, never allowed in Erivan again.”

“So how did Novron die?” Mauvin asked.

“He was murdered.”

“By who?”

“No one knows.”

“I would wager on Mawyndule,” Royce said.

“Hmm…” Arista pulled on her lower lip, deep in thought.

“What?” Royce asked.

“I was just thinking about what Esrahaddon said when he was dying. He warned that the Uli Vermar was ending and that I had to take the heir to Percepliquis to get the horn. But his very last words were ‘Patriarch… is the same…’ I always assumed that he was never able to finish the sentence before he died, but what if he said all he meant to? Myron, how many patriarchs have there been?”

“Twenty-two including Patriarch Nilnev.”

“Yes, and how old is he?”

“I don’t recall reading about his birth, but he’s been patriarch for sixty years.”

“Myron, what are some of the other patriarchs’ names?”

“Before Patriarch Nilnev was Patriarch Evlinn. Before him was Patriarch Lenvin. Before that-”

Arista’s eyes widened. “Is it possible?”

“Is what possible?” Royce asked.

Arista got to her knees. “Does anyone have anything to write with?”

“I have a bit of chalk.” Myron produced a white nib from a pouch.

“Nilnev, Evlin, Lenvin, Venlin…” Arista scrawled the words on the flat rock.

“There are two n ’s on Evlinn,” the monk corrected.

She looked up and smiled. “Of course there are. There would have to be. Don’t you see? Esrahaddon was right. He changed his name, his appearance. He must have found a position in the Cenzar Council of Emperor Nareion, which would have been easy given his mastery of the Art. Esrahaddon knew that Venlin and Nilnev were the same. In fact, every patriarch since the first has been the same person-Mawyndule.”

“It would explain why the church was so intent on finding the heir,” Hadrian said. “If they killed the bloodline of Novron, the Uli Vermar would end early.”

“Which would be fine, if Mawyndule had the horn. The fact that he didn’t was probably the only thing keeping Gaunt alive when they had him locked up. This explains why the Patriarch has sent so many teams down here. What he didn’t realize, though, is you actually needed the heir to succeed. Esrahaddon took precautions. That’s why he told me that the heir had to come. I’m not sure exactly what he did, but I venture to say that anyone other than Gaunt touching the horn’s box would have been killed.”

“That also explains why the Patriarch hired Magnus to kill Gaunt. With the heir dead, a single toot of the horn would make Nilnev king by default, just as it was supposed to do with Novron,” Hadrian said.

“Yes, but if the Patriarch blows the horn and Gaunt is still alive, then he’s not claiming an empty throne but rather announcing his right to challenge, right?” Arista looked to Myron, who nodded. “So if Gaunt wins, he becomes king of the elves and they have to do whatever he says. And if he tells them to go back across the Nidwalden and leave us alone, they will.”

“Theoretically,” Mryon said.

“So all we have to do is make the Patriarch think he succeeded. We’ll tell him Gaunt is dead and keep him hidden until the horn is blown. Then we’ll spring the trap.”

“Are you forgetting about this fight-to-the-death thing?” Gaunt asked.

“That won’t be a problem,” Arista reassured him. “He’s old, even for an elf. A breath of wind could kill him. He doesn’t want to fight you. He’s terrified of a fight. That’s why he wants you dead.”

Gaunt sat silent, his eyes working.

“So what do you say, Degan?” Arista asked. “You wanted to be emperor. How does king of the elves sound to you?”

Arista reached the surface and lay on the wet ground, exhausted. The dazzling morning light shone in her eyes and played across her skin. She had so missed the sun that she lay with arms outstretched, bathing in its warmth. The fresh air was so wonderful that she drank it in as if it were cool water discovered after crossing an arid desert.

For a time she had thought she might not make it out of the hole and back to Amberton Lee. Even with the rope around her, she clung to rocks, shaking from both exhaustion and fear. Hadrian was always there offering encouragement, calling to her, pushing her to try harder. There were a few places where Royce and Hadrian had to pull her up a particularly difficult section and her progress was often slow. Even with his wounded arm Mauvin climbed faster. Still, now that it was over, she was proud of her accomplishment and the sun on her face was the reward.

She was awakened from her reverie when she heard Magnus quietly say, “He’s here.”

Getting up, she saw four men walking swiftly toward them. The Patriarch was flanked by two guards and behind them was Monsignor Merton, whom Arista had met once in Ervanon. They appeared out of place, descending the ragged slope with the bottoms of their robes wet from being dragged across the melting snow.

Accompanied by Hadrian, Mauvin, Magnus, and Myron, Arista moved away from the open maw of the shaft and pushed through a large copse of forsythia, threatening to bloom. Hadrian took her hand and pulled her close.

“Give me the horn, quickly,” the Patriarch said, extending his hand. Glancing over his shoulder toward the hilltop, he added, “The elves have arrived.”

Arista pulled off her pack and took out the box. “Gaunt died before he could blow it.”

The Patriarch smirked at her as he took the box. His eyes were transfixed as he drew out the horn and held it up.

“At last,” the old man said, and placed it to his lips. He blew into the horn and a long clear note of ominous tone cut through the air. It lacked any musical quality, sounding instead like a cry-a scream of hate and loathing. Each of them instinctively took a few steps backward until Arista felt the little branches of the forsythia jabbing her. The old man lowered his arms, a smile on his face. “You did very well.”

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 Mawyndule 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.

Mawyndule 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, “Mawyndule 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 Mawyndule said Modina is not the heir, that Degan is, and that Degan is hiding in the hole behind us.”

Mawyndule 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,” Mawyndule 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.

Mawyndule 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 Mawyndule. When they were finished, the elves, along with Mawyndule, 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,” Mawyndule 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. Mawyndule sat, showing no disappointment with their glares.

Arista closed her eyes and reached out delicately. She sensed Mawyndule’s power. In her mind, magic appeared as a light in darkness. The oberdaza flickered like torches but Mawyndule 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.”

Mawyndule 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?”

Mawyndule 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?” Mawyndule 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.”

Mawyndule 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?” Mawyndule 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?” Mawyndule’s tone turned harsh. “You know nothing about it.”

“I do,” Royce said.

Mawyndule 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.”

Mawyndule 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.

Mawyndule 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?”

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

Mawyndule 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.”

“You’re so sure of yourself,” Mauvin said. “This protection of Ferrol is some sort of religious blessing. Placed on you by your god. It’s supposed to prevent anyone-other than Gaunt-from harming you, right? Thing is, a week ago Novron was a god too. Turns out that was just a lie. A story invented to control us. So what if this is too? What if Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor are all just stories? If it is, I could draw my sword and cut through that miserable throat of yours and save everyone here a lot of trouble.”

“Mauvin, don’t,” Arista said.

Mawyndule chuckled. “Ever the Pickering, aren’t you? Go on, dear count. Swing away.”

“Don’t,” Arista told him firmly.

Mauvin’s eyes showed that he was considering it, but the count did not move.

“You are wise to listen to your princess.” He paused. “Oh, but I forget, you’re his queen, aren’t you? King Alric is dead. You left him down there, didn’t you? Abandoned him to rot. What poor help you turned out to be.”

“Mauvin, please. Let it go. He’ll be dead tomorrow.”

“Do you really think so?” Mawyndule snapped his fingers and a huge block of stone making up a portion of the ruins exploded, throwing up a cloud of dust. Everyone jumped.

The old man laughed and said, “I don’t agree with your assessment. I think the odds are decidedly in my favor. It’s a shame, though, that there will be so few of you left.” He paused to look them over. “Is this all that survived? A queen, a count, a thief, the Teshlor, and…” He looked at Myron. “Who exactly would you be?”

“Myron,” he said with his characteristic smile. “I’m a Monk of Maribor.”

“A Monk of Maribor, indeed-the heretical cult. How dare you worship something other than an elf?” He smirked. “Didn’t you just hear your friend? Maribor is a myth, a fairy tale to make you think that life is fair or to provide the illusion of hope. Man created him out of fear, and ambitious men took advantage of that fear-I know of what I speak. I created an entire church-I created the god Novron out of the traitor Nyphron and a religion out of ignorance and intolerance.”

Myron did not look concerned. He listened carefully, thoughtfully, then recited: “ ‘ Erebus, father unto all that be, creator of Elan, divider of the seas and sky, brought forth the four: Ferrol, the eldest, the wise and clever; Drome, the stalwart and crafty; Maribor, the bold and adventurous; Muriel, the serene and beautiful-gods unto the world. ’ ”

“Do not quote me text from your cultish scriptures,” Mawyndule said.

“I’m not,” Myron said. “It’s yours-section one, paragraph eight of the Book of Ferrol. I found it in the tomb of Nyphron. I apologize if I did not get all the words correct. I am not entirely fluent in elvish.”

Mawyndule’s grin faded. “Oh yes, I recall your name now. You are Myron Lanaklin from the Winds Abbey. You were the one left as a witness while the other monks were burned alive, is that right? That incident was Saldur’s doing-he had a fetish for burning things-but you are as much to blame, aren’t you? You forced him by refusing to reveal what you knew. How do you live with all that guilt?”

“Seemingly better than you live with your hatred,” Myron replied.

“You think so?” Mawyndule asked, and leaned forward. “You’re about to become a slave while I am about to be crowned king of the world.”

His attempt at intimidation had no effect on the monk, who, to Arista’s astonishment, leaned forward and asked, “But for how long? You are ancient, even by elven standards. How short-lived will your victory be? And at what cost will you have achieved that which you think is so great? What have you had to endure to reach this moment? You wasted your long life to obtain a goal you can’t possibly live to appreciate. If you hadn’t allowed hatred to rule you, you might have spent all those years in contentment and love. You could have-”

“I’m already enjoying it!” Mawyndule shouted.

“You have forgotten so much.” Myron sighed with obvious pity. “ ‘ Revenge is a bittersweet fruit that leaves the foul aftertaste of regret. ’-Patriarch Venlin, The Perdith Address to the Dolimins, circa twenty-one thirty-one.”

“You are clever, aren’t you?” Mawyndule said.

“ ‘ Clever are the Children of Ferrol, quick, certain, and dark their fate. ’-Nyphron of the Instarya.”

“Shut up, Myron,” Hadrian growled.

Arista also saw the flare in the elf’s eyes but Myron appeared oblivious. To her relief, Mawyndule did not strike out. Instead he stood and walked away. His two guards followed with the chair. The banquet vanished and the fire’s flames dwindled to mere embers.

“Are you insane?” Hadrian asked Myron.

“I’m sorry,” the monk said.

“I’m not.” Mauvin clapped the monk on the back, grinning. “You’re my new hero.”