The sun rose brightly over the Nidwalden River. The clouds had moved off and by midmorning the sky was clear and the air cooler than it had been. A light wind skimmed across the surface of the river, raising ripples, while the sun cast a brilliant gold face upon the water. A fish jumped above the surface and fell back with a plop. Overhead, birds sang morning songs and cicadas droned.
Royce and Arista stood on the bank of the river ringing water out of their clothes. Esrahaddon waited.
“Nice robe,” the princess said.
The wizard only smiled.
Arista shivered as she looked out across the river. The trees on the far bank looked different than on their side, a different species perhaps. Arista thought they appeared prouder, straighter with fewer lower branches, and longer trunks. While the trees were impressive, there was no evidence of civilization.
“How do we know they are over there?” Arista asked.
“The elves?” Esrahaddon questioned.
“I mean, no one has seen an elf-” she glanced at Royce, “A pure blood elf-in centuries, right?”
“They are there. Thousands of them by now I should think. Tribes of the old names, with bloodlines that can be traced to the dawn of time. The Miralyith, masters of The Art, Asendwayr the hunters, Nilyndd the crafters, Eiliwin the architects, Umalyn the spiritualists, Gwydry the shipwrights, and Instarya the warriors. They are all still there, a congress of nations.”
“Do they have cities? Like we do?”
“Perhaps, but probably not like ours. There is a legend of a sacred place called Estramnadon. It is the holiest place in elven culture…at least that we humans know of. Estramnadon is said to be over there, deep in the forests. Some think it is their capital city and seat of their monarch, others speculate it is the sacred grove where the first tree-the tree planted by Muriel herself-still grows and is cared for by the Children of Ferrol. No one knows for certain. No human is likely ever to know, as the elves do not suffer the trespasses of others.”
“Really?” the princess looked at the thief with a playful smirk. “Perhaps if I knew that before I might have guessed Royce’s heritage sooner.”
Royce ignored the comment and turned to the wizard. “Can I assume you will not be returning to the village?”
Esrahaddon shook his head. “I need to leave before Luis Guy and his pack of hounds track me down. Besides, I have an heir to talk to and plans to make.”
“Then this is goodbye. I need to get back.”
“Remember to keep silent about what you saw in the tower-both of you.”
“Funny, I expected the heir and his guardian to be unknown farm boys from some place-well-like this I suppose. Someone I never heard of.”
“Life has a way of surprising you, doesn’t it?” Esrahaddon said.
Royce nodded and started to head off.
“Royce,” Esrahaddon said softly stopping him. “We know that what happened last night wasn’t pleasant. You should prepare yourself for what you’re going to find.”
“You think Hadrian’s dead,” Royce said flatly.
“I would expect so. If he is, at least know that his death may have been the sacrifice that saved our world from destruction. And while that may not comfort you, I think we both know that it would have pleased Hadrian.”
Royce thought a moment, nodded, then entered the trees and disappeared.
“He’s definitely elvish,” Arista said shaking her head and sitting down opposite Esrahaddon. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You’ve grown a beard I see.”
“You just noticed?”
“I noticed before, been kinda busy until now.”
“I can’t really shave, can I? It wasn’t a problem while I was in Gutaria, but now-does it look alright?”
“You have some grey coming in.”
“I ought to. I am nine hundred years old.”
She watched the wizard staring across the river.
“You really should practice your art. You did well in there.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t do it, not the way you taught me. I can do most of the things Arcadius demonstrated, but it’s a bit impossible to learn hand magic from a man without hands.”
“You boiled water, and you made the prison guard sneeze. Remember?”
“Yes, I’m a veritable sorceress, aren’t I?” she said sarcastically.
He sighed. “What about the rain? Have you worked on that incantation any more?”
“No, and I’m not going to. I am the Ambassador of Melengar now. I’ve put all that behind me. Given time, they may even forget I was tried for witchcraft.”
“I see,” the wizard said, disappointed.
The princess shivered in the morning chill and tried to run her fingers through her hair but caught them in tangles. Stains and wrinkles dotted her dress. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
The wizard said nothing. He appeared to be thinking.
“So,” she began, “what will you do when you find the heir?”
Esrahaddon only stared at her.
“Is it a secret?”
“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know, Arista?”
She sat trying to look naпve and offered a slight smile, “I don’t understand.”
“You aren’t sitting here shivering in a wet dress making small talk with me for nothing. You have an agenda.”
“An agenda?” she asked, not at all convincingly even for her own tastes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You want to know if what the church told you about your father’s death is true or not. You think I used you as a pawn. You are wondering if I tricked you into being an unwitting accomplice to your own father’s death.”
The act was over. She stared stunned at the wizard’s bluntness, barely breathing. She did not speak, but slowly nodded her head.
“I suspected they might come after you because they are having trouble following me.”
“Did you?” She asked finding her voice. “Did you orchestrate my father’s death?”
Esrahaddon let the silence hang between them a moment, then at last replied.
“Yes, Arista. I did.”
At first, the princess did not say a word. It did not seem possible that she heard him correctly. Slowly her head began to shake back and forth in disbelief.
“How…” she started to say, “How could you do that?”
“Nothing I, nor anyone else says, can explain that to you-not now at least. Perhaps someday you’ll understand.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. She brushed them away and glared at the wizard.
“Before you judge me completely, as I know you will, remember one thing. Right now, the Church of Nyphron is trying to persuade you that I am a demon, the very Apostle of Uberlin. You are likely thinking they are right. Before you damn me forever and run into the embrace of the patriarch, ask yourself these questions. Who approved your entrance into the University of Sheridan? Who talked your disapproving father into letting you attend? How did you learn about me? How was it that you found your way to a hidden prison that only a handful of people knew existed? Why were you taught to use a gemstone lock and isn’t it interesting that the very gem you used on your door was the same as the signet ring that unlocked the prison entrance? And how was it that a young girl, princess or not, was allowed to enter Gutaria Prison and leave unmolested, not once, not twice, but repeatedly for months without her activities ever being questioned or reported back to her father the king?”
“What are you saying?”
“Arista,” the wizard said, “sharks don’t eat seafood because they like it, but because chickens don’t swim. We all do the best we can with the tools we have, but at some point you have to ask yourself where the tools came from.”
She stared at him. “You knew they would kill my father. You counted on it. You even knew they would eventually kill me and Alric, and yet you pretended to be my friend, my teacher.” Her face hardened. “School’s over.” She turned her back on him and walked away.
When Royce reached the edge of the burnt forest, he spotted a series of colorful tents set up around the old village common. The tents displayed pennants of the Nyphron Church, and he could see several priests as well as imperial guards. Other figures moved slowly over the hill near the old castle grounds, but nowhere did he see anyone he knew.
He kept to the cover of the trees when he caught the sound of a snapping twig not too far off. Slipping around, he quickly spotted Magnus crouched in the underbrush.
The dwarf jumped in alarm and fell backward at his approach.
“Relax,” Royce whispered sitting down next to where the dwarf now lay, nervously watching the thief.
Glancing down the slope Royce realized that the dwarf had found an excellent position to watch the camp. They were on a rise behind a series of burnt trees where some of the underbrush had survived. Below they had a perfect view of each of the tent openings, the makeshift horse corral and the latrine. Royce guessed there were about thirty of them.
“What are you still doing here?” Royce asked.
“I was breaking a sword for your partner. But I’m leaving now.”
“What happened?”
“Huh? Oh, Theron and Fanen were killed.”
Royce nodded showing no outward sign of surprise or grief.
“Hadrian? Is he alive?”
The dwarf nodded, and went on to explain the events that transpired that evening.
“After it was dead, or dispelled, or whatever, Tomas and I checked on Hadrian. He was unconscious, but alive. We made him comfortable, covered him in a blanket and put a lean-to over him, the Pickering kid, and that Melengarian soldier. Before dawn, Bishop Saldur and his crew returned, dragging two wagons with them. The way I figure it, either Guy reported what happened and he was coming back with help, or they heard it when the beasty died. They pulled in and fast as rabbits, had these tents up and breakfast cooking. I spotted the sentinel in their ranks, so I hid up here. They moved Hadrian, Hilfred, and Mauvin into that white tent and soon after they put a guard on it.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, they sent a detail out to bury the dead. Most they buried on the hill up there near the castle, including Fanen, but Tomas made some big stink and they took Theron down the road to that last farm near the river and they buried him there.”
“Perhaps you forgot to mention how you found my dagger?”
“The Alverstone? I thought you had it.”
“I do,” Royce said.
Magnus reached for his boot and cursed.
“When you investigated my background, you must have stumbled across the fact that I survived my youth by picking pockets.”
“I remember something about that,” the dwarf growled.
Royce pulled Alverstone from its sheath as he glared at the dwarf.
“Look, I’m sorry about killing that damn king. It was just a job I was hired to do, okay? I wouldn’t have taken the job if it hadn’t required a uniquely challenging masonry effort. I’m not an assassin. I’m not even good enough to be considered a pathetic fighter. I’m an artisan. Truth be told, I specialize in weapons. That’s my first love, but all dwarves can cut stone so I was hired to do the tower work, then the job got changed and after half a year’s work I was going to be stiffed if I didn’t knife the old man. In hindsight, I can see I should have refused, but I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about him. Maybe he was a bad king; maybe he deserved to die; Braga certainly thought so and he was the king’s brother-in-law. I try not to involve myself in human affairs, but I was caught up in this one. It’s not something I wanted; it’s not something I looked for; it just happened. And it’s not like someone else wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t.”
“What makes you think I’m upset you killed Amrath? I’m not even mad that you trapped the tower. Closing the door on me was the mistake you made.”
Magnus inched away.
“Killing you would be as easy as-no easier than, slaughtering a fatted pig. The challenge would lie in causing the maximum amount of pain before inflicting the death.”
Magnus’ mouth opened, but no words came out.
“But you are a very lucky dwarf, because there’s a man still alive in that tent who wouldn’t like it-a man you covered in a blanket and put a lean-to over.”
Down below he spotted Arista as she entered the camp. She talked to a guard who pointed toward the white tent. She rushed to it.
Royce looked back at the dwarf and spoke clearly and evenly. “If you ever touch Alverstone again without my permission, I’ll kill you.”
Magnus looked at him bitterly then his expression changed and he raised an eyebrow. “Without your permission? So there’s a chance you’ll let me study it?”
Royce rolled his eyes. “I’m going to get Hadrian out of there. You are going to steal two of the archbishop’s horses and walk them over to the white tent without being spotted.”
“And then we can talk about the permission thing?”
Royce sighed, “Did I mention I hate dwarves?”
“But your grace-” Deacon Tomas protested as he stood in the large striped tent before Bishop Saldur and Luis Guy. The pudgy cleric made a poor showing of himself in his frock caked with dirt and ash, his face smudged, his fingers black.
“Look at you Tomas,” Bishop Saldur said. “You’re so exhausted you look as if you will fall down any minute. You’ve had a long two days, and you’ve been under tremendous stress for months now. It is only natural that you might see things in the dark. No one is blaming you. And we don’t think you are lying. We know that right now you believe you saw this village girl destroy the Gilarabrywn, but I think if you just take a nap and rest, when you get up you’ll find that you were mistaken about a great many things.”
“I don’t need a nap!” Tomas shouted.
“Calm down, deacon,” Saldur snapped, rising abruptly to his feet. “Remember whose presence you are standing in.”
The deacon cowed and Saldur sighed. His face softened to his grandfatherly visage and he put an arm around the man’s shoulders, patting him gently, “Go to a tent and rest.”
Tomas hesitated, turned and left Saldur and Luis Guy alone.
The bishop threw himself down in the little cushioned chair beside a bowl of red berries some industrious servant managed to gather for him. He popped two in his mouth and chewed. They were bitter and he grimaced. Despite the early hour, Saldur was desperate for a glass of brandy, but none had survived the flight from the castle. Only the grace of Maribor could account for the survival of the camping gear and provisions, all of which they had lazily left in the wagons when they first arrived at the manor. In the turmoil of their exodus, they had given little thought to provisions.
That he lived at all was a miracle. He could not recall how he crossed the courtyard, or how he reached the gate. He must have run down the hill, but had no recollection of it. His memory was like a dream, vague and fading. He did remember ordering the coachman to whip the horses. The fool wanted to wait for the archbishop. The old man could barely walk and the moment the flames hit, his servants deserted him. He had as much chance of survival as Rufus.
With Archbishop Galien’s death, the command of the church’s interest in Dahlgren fell to Saldur and Guy. The two inherited a disaster of mythic proportions. They were alone in the wilderness, faced with crucial decisions. How they handled them would decide the fate of future generations. Who actually held authority remained vague. Saldur was a bishop of the church, an appointed leader, while Guy was only an arm of the security branch. Still, the sentinel actually spoke with the patriarch. Saldur liked Guy, but appreciation for his effectiveness would not prevent him from sacrificing the sentinel if necessary. If Guy still had his knights about him, Saldur was certain the sentinel would take command and he would have no choice but to accept it, but the seret were dead and Guy himself wounded. With Galien also dead, a door had opened, and Saldur planned to be the first one through.
Saldur looked at Guy. “How could you let this happen?”
The sentinel who sat with his arm in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in bandages stiffened, “I lost seven good men, and barely escaped with my life. I wouldn’t call that allowing it to happen.”
“And how exactly did a bunch of farmers defeat the infamous seret?”
“They weren’t farmers; two were Pickerings and there was Hadrian Blackwater.”
“The Pickerings I can understand, but Blackwater? He’s nothing but a rogue.”
“No, there’s more to him-him and his partner.”
“Royce and Hadrian are excellent thieves. They proved that in Melengar and again in Chadwick. Poor Archibald still has fits over it.”
“No,” Guy said, “I think they’re more than that. Blackwater knows Teshlor combat, and his friend, that Royce Melborn is an elf.”
Saldur blinked. “An elf? Are you sure?”
“He passes as human, but I’m certain of it.”
“And this is the second time we’ve found them with Esrahaddon,” Saldur muttered in concern. “Is this Hadrian still here?”
“He is in the infirmary tent.”
“Put a guard on him at once.”
“I had him under guard since he was dragged to the tent. What we need to concern ourselves with is the girl. She is going to prove an embarrassment if we don’t do something,” Guy said and slipped his sword part way out of its sheath. “She is in grief over the loss of her father. It wouldn’t be surprising if she threw herself over the falls in a fit of despair.”
“And Tomas?” Saldur asked, reaching for another handful of berries. “It is clear he won’t be quiet. Will you kill him too? What excuse will you give for that? And what about all the others in this camp that heard him going on all morning about her being the heir? Do we kill everyone? If we did, who would carry our bags back to Ervanon?” he added with a smile.
“I don’t see the humor in this,” Guy snapped letting his sword slide back down in its sheath.
“Perhaps that’s because you are not looking at it the right way,” Saldur told him. Guy was a well-trained and vicious guard dog, but the man lacked imagination. “What if we didn’t kill her? What if we actually made her the Empress?”
“A peasant girl? Empress?” Guy scoffed. “Are you mad?”
“Despite his political clout, I don’t think any of us, including the patriarch, was particularly happy with the choice of Rufus. He was a fool to be sure, but he was also a stubborn, powerful fool. We all suspected that he might have had to be killed within a year, which would have thrown the infant empire into turmoil. How much better it would be to have an empress that would do whatever she was told right from the very start?”
“But how could we possibly sell her to the nobles?”
“We don’t,” Saldur said, and a smile appeared on his wrinkled face, “we sell her to the people instead.”
“How’s that?”
“Degan Gaunt’s Nationalist movement proved that the people themselves have strength. Earls, barons, even kings are afraid of the power which that commoner can gather. A word from him could launch a peasant uprising. Lords would have to kill their own people, their own source of revenue, just to keep order. This presents them with the undesirable choice of accepting either poverty or death. The landholders will do almost anything to avoid such an event. What if we tapped that? The peasants already revere the church. They follow its teachings as divine truth. How much more inspiring would it be to offer them a leader plucked from their own stock? A ruler who is one of them and able to truly understand the plight of the poor, the unwashed, the destitute. Not only is she a peasant queen, but she is also the Heir of Novron, and all the wonderful expectations that go with that. Indeed, in our greatest hour of need, Maribor has once again delivered unto his people a divine leader to show us the way out of darkness.
“We could send bards across the land repeating the epic tale of the pure, chaste girl who slew the elven demon that even Lord Rufus was powerless against. We’ll call it Rufus’ Bane. Yes, I like it-so much better than the unpronounceable Gilarabrywn.”
“But can she be made to play her part?” Guy asked.
“You saw her. She’s nearly comatose. Not only does she have no place to go, no friends or relatives, no money or possessions, she is also emotionally shattered. She’d slit her own wrists, I suspect, if she gets a knife. Still, the best part is that once we establish her as empress, once we have the support of the people so fervently on our side, no noble landholder would dare challenge us. We can do what we planned to do with Rufus. Only instead of a messy murder that would certainly invite suspicion and accusations, with the girl we can simply marry her. The new husband will rule as emperor and we can lock her in a dark room somewhere, pulling her out for Wintertide showings.”
Guy smiled at that.
“Do you think the patriarch will agree?” Saldur asked him. “Perhaps we should send a rider back today.”
“No, this is too important. I will go myself. I’ll leave as soon as I can saddle a horse. In the meantime-”
“In the meantime, we will announce that we are considering the possibility that this girl is the heir, but will not accept her unconditionally until a full investigation is conducted. That should buy us a month. If the patriarch agrees, then we can send out rabble-rousers to incite the people with rumors that the church is being forced by the nobles and the monarchs to not reveal the girl as the true heir. The people will be denouncing our enemies and demanding that she take the throne before we even announce her.”
“She will make the perfect figurehead,” Guy said.
Saldur looked up, picturing the future. “An innocent girl linked with a mythic legend. Her beautiful name will be everywhere and she will be loved.” The bishop paused and thought, “What is her name anyway?”
“I think Tomas called her-Thrace.”
“Seriously?” Saldur grimaced. “Well, no matter, we’ll change it. After all, she’s ours now.”
Royce looked around. There was not a single sentry left outside. Several still moved about on the hilltop, but they were far enough away to ignore. Satisfied, he ducked through the flap of the white tent. Inside he found Tobis, Hadrian, Mauvin, and Hilfred on cots. Hadrian was naked to his waist, his head and chest wrapped in white bandages, but he was awake and sitting up. Mauvin, though still pale, was alert, his bandages bright white. Hilfred lay wrapped like a mummy and Royce could not be sure if he were awake or sleeping. Arista stood bent over his cot checking on him.
“I was wondering when you would get here,” Hadrian said.
Arista turned. “Yes, I thought you would have arrived much sooner.”
“Sorry, you know how it is when you’re having fun. You lose all track of time, but I did locate your weapons, again. You know how upset you get when you don’t have your swords. Can you ride?”
“If I can walk, why not?” he raised an arm and Royce offered his shoulder, helping him to stand.
“What about me?” Mauvin asked, holding his side and sitting up on his cot. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”
“You have to take him,” Arista declared. “He killed two of Guy’s men.”
“Can you ride?” Royce asked.
“If I had a horse under me I could at least hang on.”
“What about Thrace?” Hadrian asked.
“I don’t think you need worry about her,” Royce told him. “I was just by the bishop’s tent. Tomas is demanding that they declare her empress.”
“Empress?” Hadrian said, stunned.
“She killed the Gilarabrywn right in front of the deacon. I guess it made an impression.”
“But what if they don’t? We can’t leave her.”
“Don’t worry about Thrace,” Arista said. “I’ll see she’s taken care of. Now you all need to get out of here.”
“Theron wanted at least one of his children to be successful,” Hadrian muttered, “but empress?”
“You need to hurry,” Arista said helping Royce pull Mauvin to his feet. She gave all three of them a kiss and a gentle hug and then pushed them out like a mother sending her children to school.
Outside the tent, Magnus arrived with three saddled horses. The dwarf looked around nervously and whispered. “I could have sworn I saw guards watching this tent earlier.”
“You did,” Royce replied. “Three horses-you read my mind.”
“I figured I needed one for myself,” the dwarf replied pointing at the shortened stirrups. He looked at Mauvin with a scowl. “Now it looks like I’ll need to get another.”
“Forget it,” Royce whispered, “Ride with Mauvin. Take it slow and make sure he stays in the saddle.”
Royce helped Hadrian up onto a gray mare then started to chuckle to himself.
“What is it?” Hadrian asked.
“Mouse.”
“What’s that?”
Royce pointed to the horse Hadrian sat on. “Of all the animals he had to choose from, the dwarf stole Mouse.”
Royce led them away from the camp, walking the horses across the scorched land where the ash muffled their movement. He kept a close eye on the distant sentries. No outcry, no shouts, no one appeared to notice and soon they slipped into the leafy forest. Once there he turned back toward the river in order to throw off anyone who might look for their tracks. Once he had them safely in a shallow glen near the Nidwalden, Royce ordered them to stay put while he went back.
He crept up to the edge of the burned area. The camp was as it had been before. Satisfied they made a clean escape, he walked back toward the river. He found himself on the trail that led to the Wood’s farm and the shell of the old building. Inexplicably, the fire never reached this far and it remained untouched. There was one change, however; in the center of the yard where they first saw the old farmer sharpening his scythe, there was a mound of earth. A stack of stones borrowed from the walls of the farmhouse circled the oblong mound. At its head, driven into the ground, was a broad plank and burned into it the words: