Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (35 page)

“But you insisted on this girl—only
this
girl. Why would you do that unless she really is the heir?”

“That makes no sense. How could I know who the heir is? Or even if an heir still lives?”

“How indeed. That was the missing piece. You are actually the only one who could know. Tell me, Arcadius Latimer, what did your father do for a living?”

“He was a weaver, but I fail to see—”

“Yes, so how did the poor son of a weaver from a small village become the master of lore at Sheridan University? I doubt your father even knew how to read, and yet his son is one of the most renowned scholars in the world? How does that happen?”

“Really, Guy, I would not think I would need to explain the merits of ambition and hard work to someone such as you.”

Guy sneered back. “You disappeared for ten years, and when you came back, you knew a lot more than when you left.”

“You’re just making things up.”

Guy smirked. “The church doesn’t let just anyone teach at their university. Did you think they didn’t keep records?”

“Of course not. I just didn’t think you’d see them.” The old man smiled.

“I’m a sentinel, you idiot! I have access to every archive in the church.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think my scholastic examination would be of any interest. I was a rebel in my youth—handsome too. Did the records indicate that?”

“It said you found the tomb of Yolric. Who was Yolric?”

“And here I thought you knew everything.”

“I didn’t have time to linger in libraries. I was in a hurry to catch you.”

“But why? Why are you after me? Why is your sword out?”

“Because the Heir of Novron must die.”

“She’s not the heir. Why do you think she is? How could I even know who the heir was?”

“Because that is one of the secrets you brought back. You discovered how to locate the heir.”

“Bah! Really, Guy, you have quite an imagination.”

“There were other records. The church called you in for questioning. They thought you might have gone to Percepliquis like that Edmund Hall fellow. And then, only days after that meeting, there was a fight in the city of Ratibor. A pregnant mother and her husband were killed. Identified as Linitha and Naron Brown, they and their child were executed by Seret Knights. After centuries of looking, I find it interesting that my predecessor managed to locate the Heir of Novron just days after the church interrogated you.” Guy glared at the professor. “Did you make a deal with the church? Did you trade information in exchange for freedom? I’m sure they told you they wanted to find the heir so they could make him king
again. When you discovered what they really did, I imagine you felt used—the guilt must be awful.”

Guy paused for Arcadius to respond but the professor said nothing.

“After that everyone thought the bloodline had ended, didn’t they? Even the Patriarch had no idea another heir still lived. Then Esrahaddon escapes and he goes straight to Degan Gaunt. Only Degan isn’t the heir. I was fooled for a long time too, but imagine my shock when he failed the blood test that he previously passed. No doubt the result of the same potion Esrahaddon used on King Amrath and Arista that made Braga suspect the Essendons. I suppose, looking back on it, we should have guessed a wizard of the Old Empire wasn’t a fool and would never lead us to the real heir.

“But there was another, wasn’t there? And you performed whatever trick you did the first time to find her.” Guy peered at Mercy. “What is she? A bastard child? A niece?” He advanced toward Miranda. “Hand her over.”

“No!” the old professor shouted.

One of the soldiers grabbed Miranda, and the other pulled the girl from her.

“But let’s be certain, shall we? I will not make the same mistake twice.” With a deft sweep of his wrist, Guy slashed Mercy across her hand. She screamed and Mr. Rings hissed.

“That’s uncalled for!” Arcadius said.

“Watch them,” Guy ordered his men while he moved to his horse.

“Hush now, be a brave girl for me,” Miranda told Mercy.

Guy carefully laid his sword on the ground, then withdrew a small leather case from his saddlebag. From it, he pulled forth a set of three vials. He uncorked the first, tilted it slightly, and tapped on it with his finger until a bit of powder sprinkled onto the bloodstained end of his sword.

“I want to leave now,” Mercy whimpered as the guard held her fast. “Please can we go?”

“Interesting,” Guy muttered to himself, then applied the contents of the next vial. This one held a liquid that hissed and fizzled when it landed on the blade.

“Guy!” Arcadius shouted at him as he stepped forward.

“
Very
interesting,” Guy continued. He uncorked the last vial.

“Guy, don’t!” the old man yelled.

He poured a single drop on the tip of the sword.

Pop!

The sound was like a wine bottle cork coming free and the flash was as brilliant as lightning.

The sentinel stood up, staring at the end of his sword, and began to laugh. It was a strange and eerie sound, like the song of a madman. “At last. At long last, I have found the Heir of Novron. The quest of my ancestors will be achieved through me.”

“Miranda,” Arcadius whispered, “you can do nothing more by yourself.” The old man’s eyes glanced toward the refugee camp.

As the morning light rose, Miranda could see several columns of smoke. Possible help was tantalizingly close. Only a few hundred yards at most.

“I’ve devoted my life to correcting my mistake. But now it is up to you to do what must be done,” Arcadius said.

Luis Guy took the girl and hoisted her onto his horse. “We’ll take her to the Patriarch.”

“What about these two, sir?” one of the hooded men asked.

“Take the old man. Kill the woman.”

Miranda’s heart skipped as the soldier reached for his sword.

“Wait!” Arcadius said. “What about the horn?” The old
professor was backing away, clutching his satchel. “The Patriarch will want the horn too, won’t he?”

Guy’s eyes flashed at the bag Arcadius held.

“You have it?” the sentinel asked.

Arcadius shot a desperate look toward Miranda, then turned and fled back down the road.

“Watch the child,” Guy ordered one of his men. Turning to the other, he waved, and together they chased after Arcadius, who ran faster than Miranda would have ever imagined possible.

She watched him—her closest friend—racing back the way they had come, his cloak flying behind him. She might have thought the sight comical except she knew what Arcadius actually had in his satchel. She knew why he was running away, what that meant, and what he wanted her to do.

Miranda reached for the dagger under her cloak. She had never killed anyone before, but what choice did she have? The man standing between her and Mercy was a soldier, and likely a Seret Knight. He turned his back on her to get a better grip on Guy’s horse, focusing his attention on Mercy and the hissing raccoon that snapped at him.

Miranda had only seconds before Guy and the other man caught up to Arcadius. Knowing what would happen made her want to cry. They had come so far together, sacrificed so much, and just when it seemed like they were finally close to their goal… to be stopped like this… to be murdered on a roadside…
Tragic
was too weak a word to frame the injustice. There would be time for tears later. The professor was counting on her and she would not let him down. That one look had told her everything. This was the final gamble. If they could get Mercy to Modina, everything might be made right again.

She drew the dagger and rushed forward. With all her strength, Miranda stabbed the soldier in the back. He was not
wearing mail or leather and the sharp blade bit deep, passing through clothes, skin, and muscle.

He spun and swatted her away. The back of his fist connected with her cheek and left her reeling from the blow. She fell to the snow, still holding the dagger, the handle slick with blood.

On the horse, Mercy held tight to the saddle and screamed. The raccoon chattered, its fur up.

Miranda got back to her feet as the soldier drew his sword. He was badly hurt. Blood soaked his pant leg and he staggered toward her. She tried to get away, reaching for Mercy and the horse, but the seret was faster. His sword pierced her side somewhere near her waist. She felt it go in. The pain burned, but then she suddenly felt cold. Her knees buckled. She managed to hold fast to the saddle as the horse, frightened by the violence and Mercy’s screaming, moved away, dragging her with it.

Behind them, the soldier fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips.

Miranda tried to pull herself up, but her legs were useless. They hung limp and she felt the strength draining from her arms. “Take the reins, Mercy, and hang on tight.”

Down the road, Guy and the other man had caught up to Arcadius. Guy, who had stopped at the sound of the girl’s screams, lagged behind, but the other soldier tackled the old professor to the snow.

“Mercy,” Miranda said, “you need to ride. Ride over there—ride to the campfires. Beg for help. Go.”

With her last bit of strength, she struck the horse’s flank. The animal bolted forward. The saddle ripped from Miranda’s hands and she fell once more into the snow. Lying on her back, she listened to the sound of the horse as it raced away.

“Get on your—” she heard Guy shout, but it was too late. Arcadius had opened the satchel.

Even from hundreds of feet away Miranda felt the earth shake from the explosion. An instant later, a gust of wind threw stinging snow against her face as a cloud billowed into the morning sky. Arcadius, and the man who wrestled with him, died instantly. Guy was blown off his feet. The remaining horses scattered.

As the snowy cloud settled, Miranda stared up at the brightening sky, at the rising dawn. She was not cold anymore. The pain in her side was going away, growing numb along with her legs and hands. She felt a breeze cross her cheek and noticed her legs and waist were wet, her dress soaked through. She could taste iron on her tongue. Breathing became difficult—as if she were drowning.

Guy was still alive. She heard him cursing the old man and calling to the horses as if they were disobedient dogs. The crunch of snow, the rub of leather, then the sound of hooves galloping away.

She was alone in the silence of the cold winter’s dawn.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

“Dear Maribor, hear me,” she prayed aloud to the brightening sky. “Oh Father of Novron, creator of men.” She took her last breath and with it said, “Take care of your only daughter.”

Alenda Lanaklin crept out of her tent into the brisk morning air. She wore her thickest wool dress and two layers of fur, but still she shivered. The sun was just rising—a cold milky haze in the soup of a heavy winter sky. The clouds had lingered for more than a week and she wondered if she would ever see the sun’s bright face again.

Alenda stood on the packed snow, looking around at the
dozens of tents pitched among the pine forest’s eaves. Campfires burned in blackened snow pits, creating gray tails of smoke that wagged with the wind. Among them wandered figures, hooded and bundled such that it should have been difficult to identify male from female. Yet there was no such dilemma—they were all women. The camp was filled with them as well as children and the elderly. People walked with bowed heads, picking their way carefully through the trampled snow.

Everything appeared so different in the light, so quiet, so still. The previous night had been a terror of fire, screams, and a flight along the Westfield road. They had paused only briefly to take a head count before pushing on. Alenda had been so exhausted that she barely recalled the camp being set.

“Good morning, my lady,” Emily greeted her from beneath a blanket, which was wrapped over her cloak. Her words lacked their normal cheerfulness. Alenda’s maid had always been bright and playful in the morning. Now she stood with somber diligence, her reddened hands quivering, her jaw shaking with the chill.

“Is it, Emmy?” Alenda cast another look around. “How can you tell?”

“Let’s find you some breakfast. Something warm will make you feel better.”

“My father and brothers are dead,” Alenda replied. “The world is ending. How can breakfast possibly help?”