With a gentle push, Royce opened the tomb of Novron.
Hadrian held the lantern high as everyone stood behind Royce, who was the first to enter. Hadrian followed directly behind, along with Arista, whose robe helped illuminate the chamber. The first thing Hadrian saw was a pair of giant elephant tusks standing to either side of the door. They were arranged such that the points arched toward each other. Black marble pillars supported the four corners of the crypt, and within the space between them, treasure filled the tomb.
There were golden chairs and tables, great chests, and cabinets. To one side stood a chariot made entirely of gold, to the other an elaborately carved boat. Spears lined one wall, and a group of shields another. Statues of men and animals cast of gold and silver, draped with jewelry, stood like silent guards. In the center of the room, raised high on a dais, rested a great alabaster sarcophagus. On the sides were divided frames similar to those etched on the walls-the story of a council, a battle, and a war. Nowhere was there the scene of Maribor bestowing the crown, which Hadrian thought odd, as it was the quintessential image found in every church.
“This is it,” Mauvin muttered in awe. “We’ve found it, the crypt of Novron himself.” The count touched the chariot, grinning. “Do you think this was his? Was this what he rode into battle?”
“Doubt it,” Hadrian said. “Gold is a bit heavy for horses to pull.”
Arista moved around the room, her eyes searching.
“What is the horn supposed to look like?” Royce asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” she said. “But I think it is in the coffin. In fact, I know it is. Esrahaddon placed it there for Nevrik. We need to open it.”
Magnus wedged his chisel under the stone lid and Hadrian, Gaunt, and Mauvin took up positions around the lid. Myron held the lantern high as the dwarf struck his hammer to the spike. The men heaved the lid off.
Inside lay the coffin. Wrought of solid gold, it was body-shaped and sculpted to depict a face, hands, and clothing. They all stared at the image of a small slender man with angled eyes and prominent cheekbones wearing an elaborate helm.
“I don’t understand,” Gaunt said. “What-what are we seeing?”
“It’s only a case,” Mauvin said. “Just decoration. We need to open this one too.”
The nimble fingers of the dwarf found latches and popped them, and everyone helped lift the lid. Once more, they all peered in. Before them lay the remains of Novron the Great.
Hadrian had expected a pile of brittle decaying bones, perhaps even dust, but instead they found a body complete with skin, hair, and clothes. The cloth was gray and rotted such that their breath caused it to flake. The skin was still intact but dry and dark like smoked beef. The eyes were gone, only cavities remaining, but the corpse was remarkably preserved.
“How is this possible?” Gaunt asked.
“Amazing,” Myron said.
“Indeed,” Magnus put in.
“It can’t be,” Mauvin declared.
Hadrian looked at the face in fascination. Like the outer lid, it was sharp and delicate in feature, with angled eyes and unmistakably pointed ears. The hands were elegant, with long thin fingers still graced with three rings, one of gold, another silver, and one of black stone. They were neatly folded over a metal box on which were scraped the words To Nevrik From Esrahaddon
“Careful,” Royce said, studying the hands.
“There’s something there,” Arista told him. “I sense magic.”
“You should if it’s the horn, right?” Hadrian asked.
“It’s not the horn. It’s something on the box-a charm of some kind.”
“It will likely strike dead anyone but the heir,” Magnus guessed.
They all looked to Gaunt.
“Can’t I just poke it with a stick or something?” he asked.
“Esrahaddon wouldn’t have done anything that could hurt you,” Arista told him. “Go on, take it. He left it for you, more or less.”
Gaunt took hold of his medallion and rubbed, then reached out and grabbed hold of the box, pulling it free of Novron’s hands.
Sconces around the walls burst into blue flame. A cold breeze coursed around the tomb and Gaunt dropped the box.
“Welcome, Nevrik, mine old friend,” a voice said, and they all spun to see the image of Esrahaddon standing before them. He was dressed in the same robe Arista wore, except it was perfectly white. He looked the same as when Hadrian had last seen him in Ratibor.
“If thine ears to these words attest, then terror’s shadow hast fled and thou art emperor. Wish I but knew if Jerish stood at thy side. On chance that dreams abide in mortal spheres, I offer to him that which I withheld in life-my gratitude, my admiration, and my love.
“Stained upon my hands, the blood of innocents brands my soul with such a crime forgiveness gapes appalled. ’Tis my sin that shattered stone and rent flesh. ’Twas I who laid waste to our beloved home. Though to speak of it now feels like folly, for yet hath spark been struck. Still, committed am I. For not a breath nor heartbeat flutter can be granted onto a single Cenzar or Teshlor when the morrow comes. Their evil with me shall I take, the threat resolved, the night consumed, that thou may walk beneath the sun of a better day.
“Convinced stand I, here within these hallowed halls of thy father’s reckoning and their solemn rest, certain that Mawyndule yet lives. Their whispers become a wail as mine eyes focus upon a murder left two thousand years unavenged. Foul is the spirit that haunts these walls, for beyond imaginings are the depths to which his depravity strains. We knew but half! Banned by horn and god alike, ’tis my belief the fiend aims with intent to outlast the law. A crevice hath he found and stretched to slip, for no restriction blocks his way should after a trio of a thousand years he survive. I go now to ensure he does not. While master beyond my art, my art will end him. To slay a fiend, a fiend I must become. Murderer of thousands, I will be stained and accept this as price paid for extinguishing this flame that seeks consumption of all.
“The horn be thine. Render it safe. Deliver it unto thine children with warning against the day of challenge to present same at Avempartha. Look to Jerish as champion-the secrets of the Instarya remain the thread upon which all hope dangles.
“Fare thee well, emperor’s son, mine emperor, my student, my friend. Know that I go now to face Mawyndule honored to die that you might live. Make me proud-be a good ruler.”
Esrahaddon’s image vanished as quickly as it had appeared and the fires in the sconces died, leaving them once more with only the light of the lantern between them and the darkness.
“Did everyone catch that? I wish I had something to write it down with,” Hadrian said. Then, noticing Myron, he smiled. “Even better.”
Royce knelt down and examined the box. There was no lock and he carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a ram’s horn. It was plain, without gold, silver, gems, or velvet. The only adornment it possessed were numerous markings that ringed the surface, letters in a language he could not read but that he recognized.
“Not much to look at, is it?” Magnus observed.
Royce placed the horn back in the box.
“What does this all mean?” Mauvin asked. Looking doleful, he sat down on a gold chair in the pile of treasure. His eyes moved from one to another, searching.
“Novron was an elf,” Royce said. “A pure-blooded elf.”
“The first true emperor, the savior of mankind, wasn’t even a man?” Magnus muttered.
“How can that be?” Mauvin asked. “He led the war against the elves. Novron defeated the elves!”
“Legends tell of Novron falling in love with Persephone. Perhaps he did it out of love,” Myron offered as he wandered around the room, looking at the objects.
“Techylor and Cenzlyor were elves, then?” Hadrian said. “They may even have been Novron’s actual brothers.”