“Your Holiness?”
“Empress Modina is not the head of this church,” the Patriarch declared simply.
“But she’s the Heir of Novron-”
“That’s exactly the problem-she is not.” The Patriarch licked his nonexistent lips and continued. “Bishop Saldur and Archbishop Galien overstepped their mandate while in Dahlgren. They took it upon themselves to declare the girl the anointed heir. It was a well-intentioned mistake. They were too impatient to wait for Novron to show the way, so they sought to artificially create a new empire. They picked this girl at random, using the unexpected incidents on the Nidwalden to serve as proof. What happened there, however, was proof of nothing. It’s a fabrication that a Gilarabrywn can only be slain by the blood of Novron. They used the ignorance of the masses to build this false empire.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“What could I do? Did you think I chose to live my life in seclusion?”
Merton looked at the Patriarch for a moment, confused; then the revelation dawned on him. “You were a prisoner?”
“Why else would I be locked away at the top of the Crown Tower all these years, never seeing anyone?”
“These guards?”
“The only two souls I know to be truly loyal to me. They tried to free me once. They spoke out and Galien had their tongues sliced off. Only now, with Saldur and the others dead, and Ervanon destroyed, am I able to speak freely.”
“I can hardly believe it,” the monsignor said. “The archbishop, and Saldur as well? But they both seemed so kindly.”
“You have no idea of their ruthlessness. Now, as a result of their actions, a false god sits on the throne of our lord and our fate is in peril.”
“But you can do something about it now, can’t you?”
“What can I do? You’ve heard the mutterings of even old Bishop DeLunden. Imagine what the world would think if I tried to tell the truth. I would be labeled a jealous old man, clinging to lost power. No one would believe me. The empress would see me murdered, just as she eliminated Ethelred and Saldur when they stood in her way. No, I cannot act openly-not yet.”
“What do you intend to do, then?”
“There is a greater issue at stake. We do not face just the extinction of the empire, but of mankind. Modina and her actions will doom all of us.”
“Her preparations to defend the city certainly appear to-”
“Her efforts are useless, but that is not of which I speak.”
“You’re referring to the mission to Percepliquis?”
“Yes! It’s by this that she imperils all.”
“But you were at the meeting. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because that mission is necessary. It’s imperative that the horn be found. The danger lies in who finds it. That horn is a weapon of incredible power. What Modina does not know-what even Saldur and Ethelred did not know-is that they have been fooled into searching for it. The enemy needs to lay hands on it as much as we do. Whoever wields it controls all. It’s he who they obey. They have always been his pawn. For centuries, he has planned this, his hand guiding every move, hidden in the shadows, manipulating forces unseen. They think he is gone, that he is dead, but he is not. He is clever and crafty, his magic is beyond imagining, and he seeks revenge. A millennium of preparation comes down to this moment and it is he who desires the horn and with it will make all of mankind bow to him. Even the elves will pay for crimes committed a thousand years ago. They will hand the horn to him, for they do not see the danger traveling with them.
“Right now, in the depths of this world, ten individuals are delving into the past and discovering what never should be known, and with that knowledge the world will be undone, unless…”
Merton waited, and when the Patriarch said nothing more, he asked, “Unless what?”
The old man, with his barren brows and bluish hair, looked back as if pulled from a terrible nightmare. “I did what I could. I managed to strike a deal with a member of the empress’s team. At the right moment, my agent will betray them.”
“Who?”
“I will not say. You are a good servant of Novron, but I cannot take a chance of revealing his identity even to you-not with so much at stake.”
“Can you at least tell me who this evil one is? Who can span the course of a thousand years to bring this about?”
“Think hard, Monsignor, and you will know, but for now pray-pray to Novron that my agent will succeed in his charge.”
“I will, Your Holiness. I will.”
“Good, and pack your bags lightly.”
“Am I going somewhere?”
“We both are.”
CHAPTER 12
Royce heard whispering.
He estimated it was an hour before dawn. Although he wasn’t certain, it would surprise him if he was very far off. Royce had experience keeping track of time underground. He had developed a surprisingly accurate method during his incarceration in Manzant. During those days, tracking minutes had focused his mind, keeping it off other, more painful thoughts. This was the first time in many years he had allowed himself to remember those days. He had carefully locked them away, packaged them into a back corner of his mind with a dark blanket laid over top, just in case he accidentally looked that way. Only now did he welcome the memories. The pain they caused worked much the same way as keeping track of time had in Manzant, much the same as biting a finger, or squeezing his fist until the fingernails dug half-moons into his palm. They distracted him from thoughts of loss far more fresh-far more crippling.
More than a decade had passed since the First Officer of the Black Diamond had betrayed him, since he had tragically killed Jade and as a result was sent to Manzant Prison by his best friend. Manzant was a dwarven-constructed prison and salt mine. He could still remember the dark rock with streaks of white and fossils of shellfish. The walls were shored up with timber. Dwarves never used wood. Men added that years later as they carved deeper, hauling the chunks of rock salt out to the elevator in baskets. It was easy to tell the man-made sections from the dwarven by the height of the ceiling. Those being punished worked in the dwarven tunnels, and Royce often found himself there.
He recalled the constant clink of pick on stone and the heat of the fires boiling the brine out of underwater lakes. Huge pans, bubbling and hissing, filled the stale air with steam. If he closed his eyes, he could see the line of bucket men and the walkers chained by their necks to the huge wheel powering the pump. He could also see men driven to exhaustion until they collapsed into the furnace pit.
Water was plentiful, so it was available to those who worked, but Ambrose Moor, the owner of the prison mine, did not waste his profits on food. They were lucky to receive a single small meal a day, usually the spoiled remnants of what a crew of indentured sailors refused to eat. This was just one of many deals Ambrose arranged to minimize operation costs. Royce would fall asleep to dreams of killing Ambrose and the thoughts lingered throughout the day. In the two and a half years he spent in Manzant, he killed Ambrose five hundred and thirty-seven times-no two alike. He killed many people in Manzant and not all of them were imaginary. He never thought of them as people. They were all animals, monsters. Whatever humanity a man had possessed going in was leached out by the salt, pain, and despair. They all fought for rotten food, a place to sleep, a cup of water. He learned how to sleep light and how to appear like he was sleeping when he was not.
Never seeing daylight, never breathing fresh air, and being worked to exhaustion each day, and beaten for mere recreation, had killed many and driven others insane. For Royce, Manzant was only part of his prison, the latest incarnation. The real walls he had been building up brick by brick for years. Escaping Manzant was impossible, but it was ultimately easier than escaping the prison of his own making.