Magnus sparked a stone against another. “The things he showed me were amazing. Chambers hundreds of times the size of this one made of shimmering crystal so that a single glow stone could make it bright as day. Stone cathedrals with pillars and teeth, and waterfalls that dropped so far you could not hear the roar. Everything down there was so vast, so wide, so big-we felt immeasurably small. It is sometimes hard to believe in Drome, seeing what has become of his people, but in places like this, and certainly in halls like the ones my grandfather showed me, it’s like seeing the face of god firsthand.”
Arista spread her blanket next to Hadrian.
“What are you trying to do there, Magnus?” Hadrian asked.
“Provide a little light. There are lots of this kind of stone here. My grandfather showed me how to make them burn-smolder, really.”
“Let me help.” Arista made a modest motion and the trio of rocks ignited and burned as a perfect campfire.
The dwarf frowned. “No, no. Stop it. I can get it.”
Arista clapped and the fire vanished. “I just wanted to help.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not natural.”
“And making rocks glow by slamming them together is?” Hadrian asked.
“Yes-if you’re a dwarf.”
Magnus got his rocks glowing and the rest gathered around them to eat. They were each down to their last meals and hoped to emerge aboveground the following day, or the last leg of the trip would be a hungry one.
“Aha!” Myron said. He had laid his books out near the rocks, giddy that there was enough light to read by.
“Discover the proper pronunciation to another name?” Hadrian asked. “Is Degan’s real name Gwyant?”
“Hum? Oh, no, I found Mawyndule-the one Antun Bulard and Esrahaddon spoke of.”
“You found him?”
“Yes, in this book. Ever since I read Mr. Bulard’s last scribbled words, I’ve been trying to find information on him. I reasoned that he must have read something shortly before he died. As these were the only books he had with him in the library, it stood to reason that Mawyndule was mentioned somewhere in one of them. Wouldn’t you know it would be in the last book I read? Migration of Peoples by Princess Farilane. It is really a very biased accounting of how the Instarya clan took control of the elven empire. But it mentions Nyphron, the horn, and Mawyndule.”
“What does it say?” Arista asked.
“It says the elves were constantly warring between the various tribes, and quite a bloody and violent people until they obtained the horn.”
“I mean, what does it say about Mawyndule?”
“Oh.” Myron looked embarrassed. “I don’t know. I haven’t read that yet. I just saw his name.”
“Then let’s be quiet and let the man read.”
Everyone remained silent, staring at the monk as he scanned the pages. Arista wondered if all the glaring distracted Myron, but as he rapidly turned page after page of dense script, she realized that the monk was unflappable with a book before him.
“Oh,” Myron finally said.
“ ‘Oh’ what?” Arista asked.
“I know why the horn didn’t make a sound when Degan blew it.”
“Well?” Hadrian asked.
The monk looked up. “You were right. Like you said in the tomb, it’s a horn of challenge.”
“And?”
“Degan’s already king. He can’t challenge himself, so it made no sound.”
“What does all this have to do with Mawyndule?” Arista asked.
Myron shrugged. “Still reading.”
The monk returned his attention to the book.
“We should be out tomorrow, right?” Arista asked Hadrian, who nodded. “How long have we been down here?”
Hadrian shrugged and looked to Royce.
The thief, having completed his survey of the perimeter, took a seat around the glow of the rocks with the rest of them and fished in his pack for his meal. “At least a week.”
“What will we find up there?” she asked herself as much as anyone else. “What if we’re too late?”
“So the Uli Vermar is the reign of a king,” Myron said. “Usually three thousand years-the average life span of an elf, apparently.”
“Really?” Mauvin asked, and glanced at Royce. “How old are you?”
“Not that old.”
“Remember the emperors in the tomb?” Arista said. “Mixing elven blood with human reduces the life span.”
“Yeah, but he’ll still outlive everyone here, except maybe Gaunt, right?”
“Why me?” Gaunt, who had been miserably picking at the remains of his meal, looked up.
“You’re an elf too.”
Gaunt grimaced. “I’m an elf?”
“You’re related to Novron, right?”
“But… I don’t want to be an elf.”
“You’ll get used to it.” Royce smirked.
“Ah, here it is,” Myron said. “Mawyndule was a member of the Miralyith, and during the time before Novron, they were the ruling tribe.” He paused and, looking up, added, “Unlike us, elves don’t have consistent nobility. Whichever tribe the king is from becomes the ruling one and holds power over the rest, but only for one generation, or the length of the Uli Vermar. Then they face the challenge and if a new king wins the throne, his tribe becomes the new ruling elite.”
“But not anyone in the tribe can challenge for the chance to be king, I’ll bet,” Gaunt said. “There is still a hereditary nobility in the tribes, right? There always is.”
“For once I have to side with him,” Royce said. “People might like to give the appearance of giving up power, but actually giving it up-that doesn’t happen.”
“Technically, I think anyone can challenge,” Myron explained. “But true, traditionally it is the leader of a given tribe. However, he is elected by the clan leaders.”
“Interesting,” Mauvin said. “A society without nobility, where leaders are elected. See, Gaunt? You really are an elf.”
“So someone blows the horn, fights, wins the challenge, and becomes king,” Arista stated. “He’s expected to rule for three thousand years, but what if he doesn’t? If he dies in an accident, then the crown goes to his next of kin. That part I get. But what happens if the king dies and doesn’t have any blood relatives? Then what?”
“That would also end the Uli Vermar,” Myron said. “And the first person to blow the horn then becomes the new king, and he then presents it to anyone else to challenge him. And that’s exactly what appears to have happened.” Myron tapped the page in the book. “After the battle of Avempartha, as Nyphron was poised to invade his homeland-”
“Wait a second,” Mauvin said. “Are Nyphron and Novron the same person?”
“Yes,” Myron, Arista, and Hadrian all said together.
“Just as Teshlor is the bastardized pronunciation of the elf warrior Techylor, Novron is the bastardized form of Nyphron. So as I was saying, Nyphron was poised to invade his homeland when the Uli Vermar ended, and the elven high council presented the horn to Novron, making him king and ending the war.”
“The Uli Vermar ended just then? That sounds awfully convenient,” Royce said. “I’m guessing the elven king didn’t die of natural causes.”
Myron looked back down and read aloud. “ ‘And so it came to pass that in the night of the day of the third turn, thus was sent Mawyndule of the tribe Miralyith. And by the council he was thus charged with the…’ ” Myron stopped speaking, but his eyes raced across the page.
“What is it?” Arista asked, but Myron raised a finger to stall her.
They all watched as Myron reached up and turned another page, his eyes widening, his eyebrows rising.
“By Mar, monk!” Magnus erupted. “Stop reading and tell us.”
Myron looked up with a startled expression. “Mawyndule murdered the elven king.”