Percepliquis

C HAPTER 4

How is Royce?” Arista asked Hadrian as they took seats next to each other near the end of the table. There were no place cards, and Hadrian had no clue where they might want him to sit. He looked to the princess for guidance, but all she offered was a shrug.

“Not great, but who is these days?” He glanced at Alric, who was taking a seat across from Arista, then at Mauvin, who sat next to his king. “I was sorry to hear about your father,” he offered.

Mauvin replied with an almost imperceptible nod. Arista stood, reached across the table, and took Mauvin’s hand. She did not say a word but merely looked into his eyes, offering a weak smile.

“See, that’s the difference,” Mauvin said. “I suffer a loss and people console me. Royce suffers a loss and whole towns evacuate.” He offered a sad smile. “I’m fine, really. My father led a good life, married the most beautiful woman in the realm, raised four children, outlived one, and died in battle defending his home. I should hope to do half as well.”

“It’s hard to imagine that anyone could break through Royce’s shell,” King Alric said.

Only a few years had passed since Hadrian had first met Alric. He, Royce, and later Myron spent three days roaming the hills of Melengar with the prince just after King Amrath’s death. It seemed like only yesterday, but Alric appeared decades older. His eyes showed a maturity and his boyish face was gone-hidden behind a full beard. He looked more like his father now, brooding and withered. The small white scar on his forehead was still there-a ghostly reminder of that day he nearly died, when his face was pushed into the dirt.

“She was a remarkable woman,” Hadrian explained.

“I wish I had met her,” Arista said, sitting back down.

“You would have liked Gwen, and I know she thought highly of you. She was”-Hadrian paused-“unique.”

They gathered in the great hall, the largest chamber in the palace. Four stone hearths filled the room with warmth and a ruddy-orange glow. Above each massive fireplace, arrays of steel shields and glimmering swords were displayed as a sign of power. Thirty-two banners displaying the emblems of all the noble houses of Avryn hung from the ceiling in two rows along the length of the room. Five had been added since the last time Hadrian had sat there. The banners of the House of Lanaklin of Glouston, the House of Hestle of Bernum, the House of Exeter, the House of Pickering of Galilin, and the gold crowned falcon on a red field of the House of Essendon of Melengar-all restored to their rightful places.

The table where they waited was the only one in the room. Placed in the center of the hall, it was longer than the bar at The Rose and Thorn, and nine chairs lined each side, along with one at the end. This was the same room where Hadrian spent his first feast masquerading as a noble. He felt as out of place now as he had then as the room filled with the other invited guests-each noble.

He knew most of the faces that entered. Armand, King of Alburn, claimed a seat near the head of the table, his son, Prince Rudolf, at his right hand. Not to be outdone, Fredrick, King of Galeannon, sat across from him. King Vincent of Maranon chose to sit two chairs down from Fredrick, making Hadrian wonder if there was an issue between the two bordering kingdoms. Not everyone was a royal. Sir Elgar, Sir Murthas, and Sir Gilbert, as well as Sir Breckton, who wore the gold sash of his new office as imperial high marshal, entered together.

Stewards began pouring wine while seven seats remained open, including the one at the head of the table, where no one dared sit. Hadrian took a sip from the goblet before him and grimaced.

“That’s right,” Arista mentioned. “You aren’t a wine drinker, are you?”

Hadrian set the goblet back down and continued to sneer at it. “It’s probably very good,” he said. “It just tastes like spoiled grape juice to me, but you have to remember I was raised on Armigil’s beer.”

Hadrian’s old tutor, the awkwardly thin imperial chancellor, Nimbus, entered along with Amilia, the imperial secretary, and they took their seats to the immediate left and right of the table’s head. Degan Gaunt wandered in, looking lost. He was dressed in an expensive doublet and breeches with buckle shoes, none of which suited him. Looking at the heir, Hadrian could not help comparing him to the Duchess of Rochelle’s pet poodle, which she dressed in tailored vests. Gaunt circled the table three times before choosing a lonely seat in the vacant space two up from Mauvin and one down from Sir Elgar, both of whom he eyed suspiciously.

Two more men entered. The first he did not know, a heavyset elderly man with a bald head and sagging cheeks. He was dressed in a long, handsomely brocaded coat with large silver buttons, accompanied by a ruffled silk shirt. Following him was a younger but fatter duplicate of the first. Hadrian recognized him as Cosmos DeLur, the wealthiest man in Avryn and infamous head of the Black Diamond thieves guild. He guessed the other man must be his father, Cornelius DeLur, formerly the unofficial leader of the Republic of Delgos.

Two chairs left.

Several conversations occurred simultaneously. Hadrian tried to make sense of them. Tilted heads, knowing smiles, sidelong glances, murmurs, whispers. He could catch only a handful of words here and there. Most often, what he caught were discussions about the empress. Many of those at the table had seen her only that one night before the final Wintertide joust, when she made her brief, but dramatic, appearance, and once more when they swore fealty after the uprising. This would be the first opportunity for them to have an audience with her.

Trumpets blared.

All conversations halted, each head turned, and everyone stood as the empress entered the hall. Her Eminence Modina Novronian passed through the arched doorway, looking every inch the daughter of a god. She wore a black gown gorgeously hand embroidered with a rainbow of colored thread and adorned with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Around her neck, a starched ruff rose in the shape of a Calian lily. She wore long sleeves with wrist ruffs that scalloped her hands. On her ears dangled sparkling earrings, and on her breast lay a necklace of pearl. As she walked, a long black velvet mantle embroidered with the imperial crest trailed behind her. The days of begging a clerk for dress material were long gone.

The woman Hadrian saw before him had the face of Thrace Wood, but she was not the little girl he had once pulled from the gutter on Capital Street in Colnora. She walked tall, her shoulders back, her gaze elevated. She did not look at anyone, nor turn her head prematurely, her sight fixed by the direction she faced. She took her time, walking elegantly, in an arc that allowed her train to straighten before she reached the head of the table.

Hadrian smiled to himself as he remembered how a madam had once suggested that, to save her from starvation, she should join the roster at the Bawdy Bottom Brothel. He had responded with the prophetic words “Something tells me she’s not a prostitute.”

A steward removed the mantle from her shoulders and placed the chair behind her, but the empress did not sit. Hadrian noted a slight stiffening of her posture as she surveyed her guests. He followed her line of sight, noting the last empty chair.

She addressed Nimbus. “Did you notify the Patriarch of my summons?”

“I did, Your Eminence.”

She sighed, then looked upon her subjects.

“Lords and ladies, forgive me. I will forgo customary traditions. My chancellor tells me there are many formalities I am expected to follow; however, such things take time and time is a luxury we can’t afford.”

It was eerie, Hadrian thought, seeing her addressing heads of state, as calmly as if she were holding a tea party for children.

“As most of you already know, Avryn has been invaded. We believe the attack began more than a month ago, but we were uncertain until very recently. The information comes from the refugees fleeing south and twelve teams of scouts I had sent north, many of whom never returned. Sir Breckton, if you will please explain the situation as it now stands…”

Sir Breckton rose and stood before the assembly, wearing a long black cape over his dress tunic. All eyes turned to him, not just because he was about to speak, but because Sir Breckton was one of those men who commanded attention. There was something in the way he held himself. He managed to appear taller, straighter, and stouter than other men. Breckton made a formal bow to the empress, then faced the table.

“While none of the scouts managed to pierce the advance troops to report on the main body of the elven army, what we have learned is unsettling enough. We now believe that at midnight on Wintertide, elements of the Erivan Empire crossed the Nidwalden River with a force estimated at over a hundred thousand. They conquered the kingdom of Dunmore in less than a week and Glamrendor is gone. King Roswort, Queen Freda, and their entire court-lost, presumably on their return trip from the Wintertide celebration.”

Heads turned left and right and Hadrian heard the words hundred thousand and less than a week repeated between them. Breckton paused for only a moment before speaking again.

“The elven host continued west, entering unopposed into Ghent. Estimates suggest they conquered it in eight days. Whether Ghent put up a fight, we don’t know. It has been confirmed, however, that the university at Sheridan was burned and Ervanon destroyed.”

The men at the table shifted with more anxiety but less was said.

“They entered Melengar next,” he told them, and a few heads turned toward Alric. “Drondil Fields made a last stand, heroically providing time for as many as possible to escape south. The fortress managed to hold out for one day.”

“A day?” King Vincent exclaimed. He looked at Alric, who nodded solemnly. “How can this be?”

“King Fredrick.” The empress addressed the monarch seated to her left. “Please repeat what you told us.”

King Fredrick stood up, brushing the folds from his clothes. He was a squat, balding man with a round belly that pressed the limits of the front of his tunic.

“Not long after the Wintertide holiday-perhaps a few days at most-travelers brought news of trouble in Calis. They told stories of Ghazel hitting the coast in droves. They called it The Flood. Hundreds of thousands of the mongrels stormed the cliffs at Gur Em Dal.”

“Are you saying the elves are in league with the Ghazel?” Cornelius DeLur asked.

The king shook his head. “No, they weren’t warriors. Well, some may have been, but the impression I got was that they too were refugees. They were fleeing and running where they could. The Calian warlords slaughtered many on the eastern coast, but the deluge was so great they could not entirely stem the wave. Within a week, bands of Ghazel were on the border of Galeannon and slipping into the Vilan Hills. We lost all communication with Calis-no more travelers have come out.”

Fredrick took his seat.

“As of this very afternoon,” Sir Breckton said, “we received word that a ship by the name of the Silver Fin was five days out of its port in Kilnar when it saw Wesbaden burning. Beyond it, the captain said he saw another column of smoke rising in the distance, which he guessed to be Dagastan.”

“Why would the elves launch an attack on both the Ghazel and us? Why open two fronts?” Sir Elgar asked.

“It’s likely they don’t consider either the Ghazel or ourselves to be a serious threat,” Breckton told them. “Sources report the elven host is accompanied by scores of dragons who burn everything in their path. Other reports speak of equally disturbing capabilities, such as the ability to control the weather and call down lightning. There are stories of huge monsters that shake the earth, burrowing beasts, lights that blind, and a mist that… devours people.”

“Are these fairy stories you would have us believe, Breckton?” Murthas asked. “Giants, monsters, mists, and elves? Who were these scouts? Old wives?”

This brought chuckles from both Elgar and Gilbert and a smile from Rudolf.

“They were good men, Sir Murthas, and it does not befit you to speak ill of the courageous dead.”

“I grieve for the lives of the men who died,” King Armand said. “But seriously, Breckton, a mist that kills people? You make them out to be the sum of all nightmares, as if every tale of boogeyman, ghost, or wraith spills out of the wood across the Nidwalden. These are only elves, after all. You make them sound like invincible gods that-” They came with hardly a warning, thousands both beautiful and terrible; They came on brilliant white horses wearing shining gold and shimmering blue; They came with dragons and whirlwinds, and giants made of stone and earth; They came and nothing could stop them. They are coming still.

The voice issued from the doorway and all heads turned as into the great hall entered an old man. It was hard to say what caught Hadrian’s eyes first, as so much was startling. The man’s hair, which did not begin until well behind his balding forehead, was long enough to reach the back of his knees and was beyond gray, beyond white, appearing almost purple, like the edges of a rotting potato. His mouth lacked lips, his eyes were without brows, and his cheeks were shriveled. He wore a cascade of glittering purple, gold, and red-robes displayed with relish-flaunting it with dramatic sweeps of his arms as he walked using a tall staff. Brilliant blue eyes shifted restlessly around the room, never pausing for too long on any one person. His jaw, held taut in an openmouthed grin, showed a surprising full complement of teeth, his expression a silent laugh.

Behind him entered two equally shocking guards. They wore shimmering gold breastplates over top shirts of vertical red, purple, and yellow stripes with long cuffs and billowing sleeves. Matching pants plumed out, gathering just below the knee into long striped stockings. Across their chests, stretching from their shoulders, hung silver braids and tassels of honor. They wore gold helms with messenger wings that hid their faces. Each held unusual weapons, long halberds with ornately curved blades at both ends, which they held tight to their sides with one arm straight down and the other high across their chests.

The guards halted in perfect unison, snapping their heels in one audible clack. The old man continued forward, approaching Modina. He stopped before her, slamming the metal tip of his staff down on the stone floor.

“Forgive me, Your Eminence,” the old man announced in a loud voice, and followed with an elaborate bow, which allowed him the opportunity to further display the grandeur of his robes. “My apologies cannot begin to elevate the depth of my sadness at having failed to arrive at the appointed time, but alas, I was irrevocably detained. I do hope you can forgive a feeble old man.”

Modina stared at him, her expression blank. She said nothing.

The old man waited, shifting his weight, tilting his head from side to side.

Modina glanced at Nimbus.

“Patriarch Nilnev,” the chancellor addressed the old man. “If you will please take your seat.”

The Patriarch looked at Nimbus, then back to Modina. With a curious expression, he nodded, walked to the empty chair, clacking his staff with each step, and sat down.

“Patriarch Nilnev,” Breckton said. “Can you explain your interruption of King Armand’s comments?”

“I was quoting an ancient text: ‘ And lo the sylvan gods prey on Man. They that death does not visit and time does not mar. Firstborn fairy kings, undisputed lords, mankind cowers before thee. ’ ” He recited the words with reverence and paused before continuing, “The ancient writings speak clearly of the power of the elves. So much time has passed, so much dust covers the years, that man has forgotten the world as it was before the coming of our lord Novron. Before his sacred birth, the elves ruled all the land. Every fair place, every sunlit hill and green valley, lay under their dominion. They were firstborn, greatest of the inhabitants of Elan. We forgot because the miracle of Novron made such amnesia possible. Before his coming, the elves were invincible.”

“Forgive me, Your Holiness.” Sir Elgar spoke up, his voice like the growl of a bear. “But that’s a load of bull. Elves are as weak as women and dumber than cattle.”

“Have you crossed the Nidwalden, Sir Elgar? Have you seen a true member of the Erivan Empire? Or are you speaking of the mir?”

“What’s a mir?”

“A mir- or kaz in Calian-is one of those wretched, vile creatures that so often used to defile the streets of cities throughout Apeladorn. Those emaciated, loathsome perversions with pointed ears and slanted eyes who carry a muddied mix of human and elven blood are abominations. Mirs are remnants of a conquered people that have less in common with elves than you do with a goldfish. Elf and human cannot coexist. They are mortal enemies by divine providence. The mixing of their blood in a single body has produced a contemptible walking insult to both Maribor and Ferrol, and the gods’ wrath has fallen upon them. You should not presume to look at a mir and guess at the nature of an elf.”

“Okay, I get the point. Still, I’ve never come across any creature that draws breath who is immune from the sharpened tip of a sword,” Elgar said.

This produced pounding of fists on the table and grunts of agreement from the other knights-all except Breckton.

“The ancient text tells us that prior to the coming of Novron, no elf was ever killed by a man. Moreover, due to their long life, no human ever saw an elven corpse. This gave rise to the belief that they were immortal gods. ‘ Soft of foot, loud as thunder, terrible as lightning, greater than the stars, they come, they come, they come to conquer. ’ ”

“So if they were so great, how did Novron stop them?” Elgar challenged.

“He was the son of a god,” the Patriarch replied simply. “And”-he paused briefly, his grin widening to display even more teeth-“he had help in the form of the Rhelacan.”

“The divine sword?” Sir Breckton asked skeptically.

The Patriarch shook his head. “It was created by the gods, but the Rhelacan is not a sword; it is the Trumpet of Ferrol, the Call of Nations, the Syord duah Gylindora that Novron used to defeat the Erivan Nation. Many make the same mistake. In the Old Speech the word syord means horn, but that bit of information was lost when some sloppy translator thought it meant sword. The name Rhelacan is merely Old Speech for relic or artifact. So the Syord duah Gylindora, or Horn of Gylindora, became the sword that is a great relic, or the Rhelacan-the weapon that Novron used against the elves.”

“How can this… horn… defeat an army?” Sir Breckton asked.

“It was made by the hand of their god, Ferrol, and holds dominion over them. It gave Novron the power to defeat the elves.”

“And where might this marvelous trumpet be?” Cornelius DeLur spoke up. “I only ask because in our present circumstances, such a delightful treasure could prove to be quite useful.”

“Herein lies the great question. The Rhelacan has been lost for centuries. No one knows what became of the Horn of Gylindora. The best accounts place it in the ancient capital of Percepliquis, just before the city vanished.”

“Vanished?” Cornelius asked, leaning forward as far as his immense girth would allow.

“Yes,” the Patriarch said. “All accounts from that time report that the city was there one day and gone the next. Percepliquis was consumed, lost, it is said, in a single day.” The Patriarch closed his eyes and spoke in a musical tone: Novron’s home, seat of power White roads, walls, roofs, and towers Upon three hills, fair and tall Gone forever, fall the wall. Birthplace of our wondrous queen Mounted flags of blue and green Exquisite mansions, wondrous halls Goodbye forever, fall the wall. City of Percepliquis Ever sought, forever missed Pick and shovel, dig and haul Search forever, fall the wall. Gala halted, city’s doom Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom Darkness sealed, blankets all Death upon them, fall the wall. Ancient stones upon the Lee Dusts of memories gone we see Once the center, once the all Lost forever, fall the wall.

“I know that,” Hadrian blurted out, and regretted it the moment he did, as all eyes looked his way. “It’s just that I remember hearing that as a kid. Not the whole thing, just the last part. We used to sing it when we played a game called Fall-the-Wall. We didn’t know what it meant. We didn’t think it meant anything. Although some of the kids thought it had something to do with the ruins of Amberton Lee.”

“It does!” Arista broke in. “Amberton Lee is all that remains of the ancient capital of Percepliquis.”

Hadrian heard the reactions of disbelief around the table.

“How do you know this?” Sir Murthas asked inquisitorially. “Scholars and adventurers have searched for centuries and a wit-” He caught himself. “A princess just happens to know where it is? What proof do you have?”

“I had-” Arista began when the empress cut her off.

“Princess Arista has provided to me irrefutable proof that what she says is indeed true.” Modina glared at the knight.

Sir Murthas looked as if he might protest, but he closed his mouth in defeat.

“I believe the city is buried,” Arista went on. “I think Edmund Hall found a way in. If only we had his journal… but the Crown Tower is gone, along with everything in it.”

“Wait a minute,” Hadrian said. “Was it a beat-up brown leather notebook? About this big?” He gestured with his hands.

“Yes,” the Patriarch said.

Arista looked back and forth between them. “How do you know that?”

“I know it because I have lived in the Crown Tower,” the Patriarch said.

“And you?” Arista looked at Hadrian, who hesitated.

“Ha-ha! Of course, of course. I knew it!” Cosmos DeLur chuckled and clapped his hands together in single applause while smiling at Hadrian. “Such a wonderfully delightful rumor as that had to be true. That is an exquisite accomplishment.”

“You stole it?” Arista asked.

“Yes, he did,” the Patriarch declared.

“Actually,” Hadrian said, “Royce and I did, but we put it back the next night.”

“Riyria’s reputation is well founded,” Cosmos said.

“I did not wish to lose such an important treasure again, so since then, I’ve kept it with me at all times.” The Patriarch pulled out a small ruddy-brown leather book and lay it on the table. “This is the journal of Edmund Hall, the daily account of his descent into the ancient city of Percepliquis and what lies within.”

Everyone stared at the book for a moment in silence.

“The princess is correct,” the Patriarch continued. “The city lies beneath Amberton Lee and Hall did find a means in. He also found a great deal more than that. The journal speaks of a terrible shaft of darkness, an underground sea that must be crossed, insidiously complex tunnels and tight crevices, bloodthirsty tribes of Ba Ran Ghazel, and a monster so terrible Hall could not fully describe it.”

“You’re saying the ancient capital is only three miles from Hintindar?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes,” Modina said, “and I plan on sending in a party to retrieve this horn.”

“Having read Hall’s journal,” the Patriarch said, “I believe you will need several skilled warriors, someone with historical knowledge of the city, someone with spelunking skills, and someone with sailing experience. I have already sent three teams on this very mission. Perhaps I-”

“I know,” the empress said. “They all failed. Princess Arista will organize my team.”

“If we could borrow Hall’s journal,” Arista said, “that would be of great assistance. I promise you’ll have it returned before the party sets out.”

The Patriarch’s smile seemed to waver, but he nodded. “Of course. It is the least I can do.”

Modina gestured toward Arista. “Your Highness, if you will…”

The princess stood up and faced the table. Before she could talk, however, Sir Elgar got to his feet. “Hold on,” he said. “Are you saying we aren’t even going to try and fight them? We’re just going to sit here and wait for some fairy-tale horn that might not even exist anymore? I say we form ranks, march north, and hit them before they hit us!”

“Your courage is commendable,” Sir Breckton said, “but in this instance foolish. We have no idea where our enemy is, the size or strength of their force, or their path of movement. Without even the faintest hint about our enemy we would be as a blind man fumbling around for a bear in the forest. And all attempts to discover anything about our foe have met with failure. I have sent dozens of scouts and few have returned.”

“It seems wrong to just wait.”

“We won’t just be waiting,” the empress said. “You can be assured that Sir Breckton has drawn up excellent plans for the defense of Aquesta, which I expect each of you to support. We have already begun overstocking the city with supplies and reinforcing the walls. We should not deceive ourselves: this war-this storm-is coming and we must be prepared for it. I assure you, we will stand, we will fight, and we will pray. As I find myself faced with annihilation, I am not above throwing support to even the thinnest promise. If there is a chance that finding this horn can save my people-my family-we must try. I will do whatever it takes to protect us. I would even make a deal with Uberlin himself if that is what is needed.”

When she was done, no one said a word until she once more gestured toward Arista.

The princess took a breath. “I have already discussed this with the empress. The team will be small, no more than twelve, I think. Two people must go. For the rest, I will ask for volunteers, starting from a list we have already prepared. I will speak with those on the list individually, in order to allow for the privacy of each person’s decision.”

“And who are these two?” Murthas asked. “The ones that must go. Can we know their names?”

“Yes,” Arista said. “They are Degan Gaunt and myself.”

Several people spoke at once. Sir Elgar and the other knights laughed, and Alric started to protest, but by far the loudest voice in the room came from Degan Gaunt.

“Are you insane?” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere! Why do I have to go? This is just another plot of the aristocracy to silence me. Can’t you see what this really is? This elven threat is a hoax, an excuse to oppress the common man once more!”

“Sit down, Mr. Gaunt,” Modina said. “We’ll discuss this in private as soon as the meeting is over.”

Gaunt dubiously sat down and slumped in his chair.

The empress rose and the room went silent. “This concludes this meeting. Sir Breckton will begin by convening a war council here in one hour to specify in detail the reorganization of troops and the requisition of supplies and arms necessary to develop a proper defense for the city. Those not asked to join the Percepliquis party should meet back here at that time. In the future, Chancellor Nimbus and Secretary Amilia will be on hand in their offices to answer any additional questions. May Maribor protect us all.”

The room filled with the sounds of scraping chairs and low conversations. Hadrian rose to his feet but stopped when he felt Arista’s hand on his arm.

“We stay here,” she told him.

He glanced up the length of the table as the kings and knights began filing out of the room. The empress made no indication of leaving, nor did Amilia or Nimbus. He even caught the spindling chancellor subtly patting the table with his hand, as further indication that Hadrian should sit back down. Alric and Mauvin stood but did not advance toward the exit.

The Patriarch, flanked by his bodyguards, exited the hall. He looked back, nodding and smiling, his staff clicking on the stone. He was the last one out of the hall, and with a nod from Nimbus, guards closed the doors. A dull but-Hadrian felt-ominous thud echoed with their closing.

“I’m going,” Alric told his sister.

“But-” she started.

“No buts,” he said firmly. “You went to meet with Gaunt against my wishes. You tried to free him from these dungeons instead of coming home. You even managed to be on hand when Modina slew the Gilarabrywn. I’m tired of being the one sitting home worrying. I may no longer have a kingdom, but I am still the king! If you go, I go.”

“Me too,” Mauvin put in. “As Count of Galilin, it falls to me to keep both of you safe. My father would have insisted.”

“I was just going to say, before you interrupted,” Arista began, “that you’re both already on the list. I’ll just check you both off as agreeing.”

“Good.” Alric smiled triumphantly, folding his arms across his chest, then grinned at Mauvin. “Looks like we’ll make it to Percepliquis after all.”

“And you can take me off your bloody list!” Degan Gaunt shouted. He was on his feet. “I’m not going!”

“Please sit down, Degan,” Arista told him. “I need to explain.”

Degan remained furious, his eyes wide, his hands tugging at his doublet and his tight collar. “You!” He pointed at Hadrian. “Are you just going to sit there? Aren’t you supposed to protect me?”

“From what?” he asked. “They only want to talk.”

“From the brutish manhandling of the common man by the rich aristocracy!”

“That’s actually what we need to speak about,” Modina explained. “You are the true Heir of Novron, not I. That is why Ethelred and Saldur locked you up.”

“Then why haven’t I been acknowledged? I’ve seen precious little benefit from that wondrous title. I should be the emperor-I should be on the throne. Why hasn’t my pedigree been announced? Why do you feel it is necessary to speak about my lineage in private? If I really am this heir, I should be sitting for my coronation right now, not going on some suicide mission. How stupid do you think I am? If I really were this descendant of a god, I would be too valuable to risk. Oh no, you want me out of the way so you can rule! I am an inconvenience that you have found a convenient way to dispose of!”

“Your lineage hasn’t been announced for your own safety. If-”

Gaunt cut Modina off. “My own safety? You people are the only ones that threaten me!”

“Will you let her finish?” Amilia told him.

Modina patted her hand and then continued. “The heir has the ability to unite the four nations of Apeladorn under one banner, but I have already accomplished that, or rather the late regents, Saldur and Ethelred, have. Through their diligent, misguided efforts, the world already believes the heir sits on the imperial throne. At this moment, we are in a war with an adversary we have little chance of defeating. This is no time to shake the people’s belief. They must remain strong and confident that the heir already rules. We must remain united in the face of our enemy. If we revealed the truth now, that confidence would be shaken and our strength destroyed. If we manage to survive, if we live to see the snow melt and the flowers bloom again, then you and I can talk about who sits on the throne.”

Degan stood with less conviction now. He leaned on the table, pulling on his collar. “I still don’t see why I need to go on this loony trip into a buried city.”

“The ability to unite the kingdoms was thought to be the sum of the heir’s value, but we now believe it is trivial compared to your true importance.”

“And that is?”

“Your ability to both find and use the Horn of Gylindora.”

“But I don’t know anything about this-this horn thingy. What is it I’m supposed to do, exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

“What will happen if I use it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I don’t know that I am going. You said that if everything works out, we’ll talk about who sits on the imperial throne, but I say we have that discussion now. I will go on this quest of yours, but in return I demand the throne. I want it in writing, signed with your hand, that I will be Emperor of Apeladorn upon my return, regardless of success. And I want two copies, one which I will take with me in case the other is somehow lost.”

“That’s outrageous!” Alric declared.

“Perhaps, but I won’t go otherwise.”

“Oh, you’ll go,” Mauvin assured him with a smirk.

“Sure, you can tie me up and drag me, but I’ll hang limp-a dead weight that will slow you down. And at some point you’ll need me to do something, which I assure you I will not. So if you want my cooperation, you will give me the throne.”

Modina stared at him. “All right,” she said. “If that is your price, I will pay it.”

“You’re not serious!” Alric exclaimed. “You can’t agree to put this-this-”

“Careful,” Gaunt said. “You are speaking of your next emperor, and I remember slights against me.”

“What will happen to Modina?” Amilia asked.

Gaunt pursed his lips, considering. “She was a farmer once, wasn’t she? She can go back to that.”

“Empress,” Alric began, “think about what you are doing.”

“I am.” She turned to Nimbus. “Take Gaunt. Have the scribe write up whatever he wants. I will sign it.”

Gaunt smiled broadly and followed the chancellor out of the hall. A silence followed. Alric started to speak several times but stopped himself and finally slumped in his seat.

Arista looked at Hadrian and took his hand. “I want you to go.”

Hadrian glanced at the door. “Being his bodyguard, I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

She smiled, then added, “I also want Royce to come.”

Hadrian ran a hand through his hair. “That might be a bit of a problem.” He looked toward Modina.

“I have no objection,” she said.

“We need the best team I can put together,” Arista added.

“That’s right,” Alric said. “If ever there was a need for my miracle team, this is it. Tell him I’ll make it worth his time. I still have some fortune left.”

Hadrian shook his head. “This time it won’t be about money.”

“But you will talk to him?” Arista asked.

“I’ll try.”

“Hey,” Alric said to Arista, “why is it that you feel compelled to go? I never remember you having any interest in Percepliquis before.”

“To be honest, I would rather not go, but it’s my responsibility now.”

“Responsibility?”

“Perhaps penance is a better word. You could say I am haunted.” Her brother did not appear to understand, but she did not elaborate. “We still need a historian. If only Arcadius had… but now…”

“I know someone,” Hadrian said, picking up Hall’s journal. “A friend with an appetite for books and an uncanny memory.”

Arista noded. “What about someone with sailing experience?”

“Royce and I spent a month on the Emerald Storm. We know a little about ships. It’s a shame I don’t know where Wyatt Deminthal is, though. He was the helmsman on the Storm and a fantastic seaman.”

“I’m familiar with Mr. Deminthal,” Modina said, drawing a curious look from Hadrian. “I’ll see if I can convince him to sign on.”

“That just leaves the dwarf,” Arista said.

“The what?” Hadrian stared at her.

“Magnus.”

“You’ve found him?” Alric asked.

“Modina did.”

“That’s wonderful!” Alric exclaimed. “Can we execute him before our departure?”

“He’s going with you,” Modina told him.

“He killed my father!” Alric shouted. “He stabbed him in the back while he was at prayer!”

“While I can see your point, Your Majesty,” Hadrian said to Alric, “there is a more pressing issue. He nearly killed Royce twice. If he sees Magnus, the dwarf is dead.”

“Then perhaps you should be the one to hang on to this.” Modina produced the white dagger and slid it down the table, where it came to rest, spinning slightly before Hadrian. “I know all about Magnus’s crimes. His obsession with Royce’s dagger caused him to make poor decisions, including the one that got him arrested when he tried to steal it from the storehouse. You are going underground, perhaps deep underground. There will be no maps or road signs and I can’t afford for you to get lost.”

“Alric, Modina and I agree on this,” Arista said. “Remember he was my father as well. We are setting out on a journey that may decide the fate of our race! The elves don’t want to push us from our lands and lock us in slums. They plan to eradicate us. They won’t ever let us have a second chance to hurt them. If we don’t succeed, it’s over-all of it. No more Melengar, no more Warric, no more Avryn. We will cease to exist. If I must tolerate-even forgive-a murderer as payment for the safety of everyone and everything I’ve ever known… Why, I’d marry the little cretin if that was the modest price Maribor put on this prize.”

There was a silence after the princess stopped speaking.

“All right,” Alric said grudgingly. “I guess I can put up with him.”

Hadrian reached out and picked up Alverstone. “I will definitely need to hold on to this.”

“Wow,” Mauvin said, looking at Arista. “You’d marry him? That’s really sick.”

“Supplies are being prepared,” Modina explained. “Food kits designed by Ibis Thinly will be packed along with lanterns, ropes, harnesses, axes, cloth, pitch, blankets, and everything else we can think of that you might need.”

“Then we will leave as soon as the supplies are ready,” Arista declared.

“So it’s settled.” Modina stood and all the others followed suit. “May Maribor guide your steps.”