“That explains the small number of sarcophagi,” Myron pointed out. “The generations were longer. Oh! And Old Speech isn’t old speech at all-it’s elvish. The native language of the first emperor. Imagine that. The language of the church is not similar to elvish… it is elvish.”
“That’s why Thranic was lopping heads off statues,” Royce said. “They were accurate depictions of the emperors, and perhaps Cenzlyor and Techylor.”
“But how could it have happened?” Mauvin asked. “How could an elf be the emperor? This has to be a mistake! Novron is the son of Maribor, sent to save us from the elves-the elves are-”
“Yes?” Royce asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mauvin said, shaking his head. “But this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”
“It isn’t what the church wanted to be known,” Royce said. “That’s why they locked up Edmund Hall. They knew. Saldur knew, Ethelred knew, Braga knew-”
“Braga!” Arista exclaimed. “That’s what he meant! Before he died, he said something about Alric and me not being human-about letting filth rule. He thought we were elves! Or that we had retained at least some elven blood. If the Essendons were heirs to Novron, then we would have. That’s the secret-that’s why they have hunted the heir. The church has been trying to wipe out the line of Novron so that elves would no longer rule mankind. That’s what Venlin was trying to do. That’s how he persuaded the Teshlor Guild and the Cenzar Council to unite against the emperor-for the greater good of mankind-to rid them of elven rule.”
“Instarya,” Myron muttered from the corner, where he looked at a worn and battered shield that hung in a place of prominence.
“What’s that?” Hadrian asked.
“The markings on the shield here,” he said. “They are of the elven tribe Instarya, the warriors. Novron was from the Instarya clan.”
Arista asked, “Why was it that Novron fought his own people?”
“None of this matters,” Gaunt told them. “We’re still trapped. Unless one of you spotted a door I didn’t see. This treasure-filled tomb is a dead end unless, of course, blowing on this does something.” Gaunt looked down at the horn.
“No, wait!” Arista shouted, but it was too late.
Everyone cringed as Gaunt lifted the horn to his lips and blew.
Nothing happened.
Not even a sound emanated from the instrument. Gaunt merely turned red-faced, his cheeks puffed out silently as if he were performing a pantomime of a trumpeter. He looked down at it, frustrated. He put his eye to the mouthpiece and peered inside. He stuck his pinky finger in and wiggled it around, then tried to blow it again. Nothing. He blew again and again and then finally threw it to the floor, disgusted. Without a word, he walked to the chariot and sat down, putting his back against a golden spoked wheel.
Arista picked up the instrument and turned it over in her hands. It was just a simple horn, a bit over a foot in length, with a pleasant arc. It was dark, almost black, near the point and faded rapidly to near white at the wide end. Several rings of finely etched markings circled it. There was nothing special about it. The horn just looked old.
“Myron?” she called, and the monk looked up from the treasures. “Can you read any of this?”
Myron took the horn near the lantern and peered at it. “It’s Old Speech-or elvish, I suppose, now isn’t it?” He looked at the horn and squinted, his mouth and nose crinkled up as his eyes worked and his fingers rotated the horn. “Ah!”
“What?”
“It says ‘ Sound me, ’O son of Ferrol, spake argument with thine lord, by mine voice wilt thee challenge, no longer by the sword.’ ”
“What does that mean?” Mauvin asked.
Myron shrugged.
“Is that all?” Arista asked.
“No there’s more. It also says: Gift am I, of Ferrol’s hand these laws to halt the chaos be, No king shall die, no tyrant cleaved save by the perilous sound of me. Cursed the silent hand that strikes forever to his brethren lost, Doomed of darkness and of light so be the tally and the cost. Breath upon my lips announce the gauntlet loud so all may hear, Thine challenge for the kingly seat so all may gather none need fear. But once upon a thousand three unless by death I shall cry, No challenge, no dispute proceed a generation left to die. Upon the sound, the sun shall pass and with the rising of the new, Combat will begin and last until there be but one of two. A bond formed betwixt opponents protected by Ferrol’s hand, From all save the blade, the bone, and skill of the other’s hand. Should champion be called to fight evoked is the Hand of Ferrol, Which protects the championed from all and champion from all-save one-from peril. Battle is the end for one for the other all shall sing. For when the struggle at last is done the victor shall be king.
“It’s not a weapon at all,” Hadrian said. “It’s just a horn. It’s used to announce a ceremonial challenge for the right of leadership, like throwing down a gauntlet or slapping someone’s face. Myron, remember you told us that the elves had troubles in the old days with infighting between the clans? This must have been the solution. How the elves decide who rules them. It said that they are only allowed to challenge once-What did you say? A thousand and three years?”
“I actually think that means once every three thousand years.”
“Right, well, Novron must have used it to challenge the king of the elves to combat and won, ending the war and making himself king of both the elves and men.”
“I don’t see how this helps us,” Gaunt said. “Why did we bother coming down here? How is this supposed to stop the elven army?”
“By blowing it, Gaunt just announced his challenge for the right to rule them,” Arista said. “ ‘ So all may gather none need fear. ’ My guess is they have to stop fighting now and await the outcome of the one-on-one combat between Gaunt and their king.”
“What?” Gaunt looked up, concerned.
“Only Gaunt didn’t blow it,” Hadrian said. “It’s like it’s busted or something.”
So the horn isn’t getting us out of here?” Gaunt asked.
“No,” Arista said sadly. “No, it’s not.”
“Well, let’s see what a dwarf can do, then,” Magnus said, and taking out his hammer, began examining the walls, tapping here and there, placing his ear to them, even licking the stone. He circled Novron’s tomb and then moved out into the larger crypt of kings. The rest of them wandered around, looking at the contents of the tomb, while Hadrian looked through the packs.
“There’s probably thousands of pounds of gold here,” Gaunt said, picking up a vase and staring at it miserably, as if it were mocking him by its mere existence. “What good is it?”
“I’d trade it all for a nice plate of Ella’s apple pie right now,” Mauvin said. “I wouldn’t even mind her stew-and I never really liked her stew.”
“I never had her stew, but I remember her pie,” Myron said. He was crouched against the wall, still studying the horn. “It was very nice.”
They all listened quietly for a time to the tapping of the dwarf’s hammer in the other room. Its faint tink! jarred Arista’s nerves.
“I pretended to be Ella when I worked at the palace,” Arista said. “But I just scrubbed floors. I didn’t cook. She did make great apple pie. Did she-”
Mauvin shook his head. “She was killed during the flight.”
“Oh.” Arista nodded.
“What do you think this is?” Gaunt asked, holding up a statuette that looked to be a cross between a bull and a raven.
Arista shrugged. “Pretty, though.”
“How much?” Mauvin asked as Hadrian sat down on the wheel of the chariot.
“Three days,” he said, “if we conserve.”
The sound of the dwarf’s hammer stopped and Magnus returned. His long face said everything. He entered and sat on a pile of gold coins, which jingled gaily. “There are worse places to be buried, I suppose.”
“Alric,” Arista said suddenly. “I suppose we should put him to rest properly, then.”
“He’ll be well buried,” Myron told her. “And in a king’s tomb.”