“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.”
CHAPTER 27
Trumpets announced the gray light of the predawn.
The elves had transformed the top of Amberton Lee overnight. Where once only the desolate remains of ancient walls and half-buried pillars stood, the crest of the hill now displayed seven great tents marked by shimmering banners. In the misty haze of melting snow, a low wall of intertwined brambles created an arena marked by torches that burned blue flames. Drums followed a loud fanfare and beat to an ominous rhythm-the heartbeat of an ancient people.
Degan shivered in the cold, looking even worse than the night before. Hadrian, Royce, and Mauvin fed him coffee that steamed like some magical draft. Gaunt clutched the mug with both hands and still the liquid threatened to spill from his shaking. Arista stood with her feet in the cold dew, every muscle in her body tense as she waited. Everyone waited. Aside from the three whispering last-minute instructions into Gaunt’s ear, no one else spoke. They all stood like stones on the Lee, unwilling witnesses.