Nyphron rising trr-3 Read online

  "I think he'd be about forty now, I guess."

  "You guess?"

  She nodded. "We never celebrated his birthday, which was always kind of strange. You see, my mother adopted him. She was the midwife at his birth and…" She hesitated. "Things didn't go well. Anyway, my mother kept an amulet just like yours and gave it to my brother as his inheritance the day he left home."

  "What do you mean things didn't go well with the birth?" Hadrian asked.

  "The mother died-that sort of thing happens, you know. Mothers die all the time in childbirth. It's not at all uncommon. It just happens. We should probably look for other wounded-"

  "You're lying," Hadrian shot back.

  She started to stand but Hadrian grabbed her arm. "This is very important. I must know everything you can tell me about the night your brother was born."

  She hesitated but Hadrian held her tight.

  "It wasn't her fault. There was nothing she could do. They were all dead. She was just scared. Who wouldn't be?!"

  "It's okay. I'm not accusing your mother of anything. I just need to know what happened." He held up his amulet. "This necklace belonged to my father. He was there that night."

  "Your father, but no one…" He saw realization in her eyes. "The swordsman covered in blood?"

  "Yes," Hadrian nodded. "Does your mother still live in the city? Can I speak to her? My mother died several years ago."

  "Do you know what happened? I have to know. It is very important."

  She looked around and, when she was sure no one could overhear, she said, "A priest came to my mother one night looking for a midwife and took her to the Bradford Boarding House where a woman was giving birth. While my mother worked to deliver the baby, a fight started on the street.

  "My mother had just delivered the first child-"

  "First child?"

  "She could see another was on the way, but men in black broke into the room. My mother hid in a wardrobe. The husband fought, but they killed his wife and child and another man who came to help. The father took off his necklace-like the one you wear-and put it around the neck of the dead baby. There was still fighting on the street out front and the husband ran out of the room.

  "My mother was terrified. She said there was blood everywhere, and the poor woman and her baby…but she summoned the courage to slip out of the wardrobe. She remembered the second child and knew it would die if she didn't do something. She picked up a knife and delivered it.

  "From the window she saw the husband die and the street filled with dozen of bodies. A swordsman covered in blood was killing everyone. She didn't know what was happening. She was terrified. She was certain he would kill her, too. With the second child in her arms she took the necklace from the dead baby and escaped out the broken window. She fled and pretended the baby was hers and never told anyone what really happened until the night she died-when she told me."

  "Why did she take the necklace?"

  "She said it was because the father meant it for his child."

  "But you don't believe that?"

  She shrugged. "Look at it." She pointed at his amulet. "It's made of silver. My mother was a very poor woman. But it's not like she sold it. It did belong to the child and in the end she did give it to him."

  "What is your brother's name?"

  She looked puzzled. "I thought you knew. You were with the Nationalists."

  "How would being with-"

  "My brother is the leader of the Nationalist Army."

  "Oh," Hadrian's hopes sank. "Your brother is Commander Parker?"

  "No, no, my name is Miranda Gaunt. My brother is Degan."

  ***

  She had not fought or taken blows, but Arista felt battered and beaten. She sat in what, until that morning, had been the viceroy's office. A huge gaudy chamber, it contained all that had survived the burning of the old royal palace. It was dark outside the many windows. Night had slipped in, heralding a close to the longest day she could recall. Memories of that morning were already distant, from another year, another life.

  Outside, the flicker of bonfires bloomed in the square where they sentenced Emery to die. Die he did, but his dream survived, his promise fulfilled. She could hear them singing, see their shadows dancing. They toasted him with mugs of beer, and celebrated his victory with lambs on spits. A decidedly different gathering than the one the sheriff had planned.

  "We insist you take the crown of Rhenydd," Doctor Gerand repeated, his voice carrying over the others.

  "I agree," Perin said. Since the battle, the big grocer designated to lead the failed left flank, wounded in the fight, had become a figure of legend. He found himself thrust into the ad hoc city council hastily comprised of the city's most revered surviving citizens.

  Several other heads nodded. She did not know them, but guessed they owned large farms or businesses-commoners all. None of the former nobility remained after the Imperial takeover. All of the Imperials were either dead or imprisoned. Viceroy Androus, evicted from his office, was relocated to a prison cell along with the city guards that surrendered. A handful of other city officials and Laven, the man who had words with Emery in The Gnome, prepared to stand trial for crimes against the citizenry-a new law.

  When the battle ended, Arista helped organize the treatment of the wounded. Soon people returned to her, asking what to do next. She directed them to bury the bodies of those without families outside the city. There was a brief ceremony presided over by Monsignor Bartholomew.

  The wounded and dying overwhelmed the armory, and makeshift hospitals were created in the Dunlaps' barn and rooms commandeered at The Gnome. People also volunteered their private homes, particularly those with beds recently made empty. With the work of cleaning up the dead and wounded underway, the question of what to do with the viceroy and the other imperial supporters arose, along with a dozen other inquiries. Arista suggested they form a council and decide together what should be done. They did, and their first official act was to summon her to the viceroy's old office.

  It was unanimous. The council voted to appoint Arista ruling queen of the Kingdom of Rhenydd.

  "There is no one else here of noble blood," Perin said wearing a blood-stained bandage around his head. "No one else who even knows how to govern."

  "But Emery envisioned a republic," Arista told them. "A self-determining government like they have in Delgos. This was his dream-the reason he fought, the reason he died."

  "But we don't know how to do that." Doctor Gerand said. "We need experience, and you have it."

  "He's right," Perin spoke up again. "Perhaps in a few months we could hold elections, but Sir Breckton and his army are still on their way. We need action. We need the kind of leadership that won us this city, or come tomorrow we'll lose it again."

  Arista sighed and looked over at Hadrian, who sat near the window. As commander of the Nationalist Army, he also received an invitation.

  "What do you think?" she asked.

  "I'm no politician."

  "I'm not asking you to be. I just want to know what you think…"

  "Royce once told me two people can argue over the same point and both can be right. I thought he was nutty, but I'm not so sure anymore, because I think you're both right. The moment you become queen, you'll destroy any chance of this becoming the kind of free republic Emery spoke of, but if someone doesn't take charge-and fast-that hope will die anyway. And they're right. If I were going to choose anyone to rule, it would be you. As an outsider, you have no bias, no chance of favoritism-you'll be fair. And everyone already loves you."

  "They don't love me. They don't even know me."

  "They think they do, and they trust you. You can give directions and people will listen. And right now, that's what is needed."

  "I can't be queen. Emery wanted a republic, and a republic he will have. You can appoint me temporary mayor of Ratibor and steward of the Kingdom of Rhenydd. I will administer only until a proper government can be established, at which time I will re
sign and return to Melengar." She nodded more to herself than any of them. "Yes, that way I will be in a position to ensure it gets done."

  The men in the room muttered in agreement.

  "Tomorrow we can address the city. Is there anything else?"

  The council filed out of City Hall into the square, leaving her and Hadrian alone. Outside the constant noise of the crowd grew quiet, and then exploded with cheers.

  "You're very popular, Your Highness," Hadrian told her.

  "Too popular. They want to commission a statue of me."

  "I heard that. They want to put it in the West End Square, one of you holding up that sword."

  "It's not over yet. Breckton is almost here, and we don't even know if Royce got through. What if he never made it? What if he did and Alric doesn't listen? He might not think it possible to take Ratibor and refuse to put the kingdom at risk. We need to be certain."

  "You want me to go?"

  "No," she said. "I want you here. I need you here. But if Breckton lays siege, we will eventually fall and by then it will be too late for you to get away. Our only hope is if Alric's forces can turn Breckton's attention away from us."

  He nodded and his hand played with the amulet around his neck. "I suppose it doesn't matter where I go for awhile."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Esrahaddon was in Gaunt's camp. He's been helping the Nationalists."

  "Did you ask him about the heir?"

  Hadrian nodded. "And you were right. The heir is alive. I think he's Degan Gaunt."

  "Degan Gaunt is the heir?"

  "Funny, huh? The voice of the common man is also the heir to the imperial throne. There was another child. They were twins. The midwife took the surviving one. No one else knew. I have no idea how Esrahaddon figured it out, but that explains why he's been helping Gaunt."

  "Where is Esrahaddon now?"

  "Don't know. I haven't seen him since the battle started."

  "You don't think."

  "Hmm? Oh, no. I'm sure he's fine. He hung back when we engaged Dermont's forces. I suspect he's off to find Gaunt and will contact me and Royce once he does." Hadrian sighed. "I wish my father could have known he didn't fail after all.

  "I'll take care of things tonight before I leave. I'll put one of the regiment captains in charge of the army. There's a guy named Renquist who seems intelligent. I'll have him see to the walls, patch up the stone work, ready gate defenses, put up sentries, guards, and archers. He should know how to do all of that. And I'll put together a list of things you'll want to do, like bring the entire army and the surrounding farmers within the city walls and seal it up. You should do that right away."

  "You'll be leaving in the morning then?"

  He nodded. "Doubt I'll see you again before I go, so I'll say goodbye now. You've done the impossible, Arista-excuse me-Your Highness."

  "Arista is just fine." she told him. "I'm going to miss you." It was all she could say. Words were too small to express gratitude so large.

  He opened his mouth, but hesitated. He smiled then and said, "Take care of yourself, Your Highness."

  ***

  In her dream Thrace could see the beast coming for her father. He stood smiling warmly at her, his back to the monster. She tried to scream for him to run, but only a soft muffled moan escaped. She tried to wave her arms and draw his attention to the danger, but her arms were lead and refused to move. She tried to run to him, but her feet were stuck, frozen in place.

  The beast had no trouble moving.

  It charged down the hill. Her poor father took no notice, even though the beast shook the ground. It consumed him completely with a single swallow, and she fell as if pierced through the heart. She collapsed onto the grass, struggling to breathe. In the distance the beast was coming for her now, coming to finish the job, coming to swallow her up-his legs squeaking louder and louder as he advanced.

  She woke up in a cold sweat.

  She was sleeping on her stomach in her feather bed with the pillow folded up around her face. She hated sleeping. Sleep always brought nightmares. She stayed awake as long as possible, many nights sitting on the floor in front of the little window, watching the stars and listening to the sounds outside. There was a whole symphony of frogs that croaked in the moat and a chorus of crickets. Fireflies sometimes passed by her tiny sliver of the world. But eventually sleep found her.

  The dream was the same every night. She was on the hill. Her father unaware of his impending death, and there was never anything she could do. However, tonight's dream had been different. Usually it ended when the beast devoured her, but this time she woke early. Something else was different. When the beast came it made a squeaking sound. Even for a dream that seemed strange.

  She heard it then. The sound entered through her window.

  Squeak!

  There were other sounds, too, sounds of men talking. They spoke quietly but their voices drifted up from the courtyard below. She went to the window and peered out. As many as a dozen men with torches drew a wagon whose large wooden wheels squeaked once with each revolution. The wagon was a large box with a small barred window cut in the side, like the kind that would hold a lion for a traveling circus. The men were dressed in black and scarlet armor. She had seen that armor before in Dahlgren.

  One man stood out. He was a tall and thin with long black hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard.

  The wagon came to a stop and the knights gathered.

  "He's chained, isn't he?" she heard one of them say.

  "Why? Are you frightened?"

  "He's not a wizard," the tall man scolded. "He can't turn you into a frog. His powers are political, not mystical."

  "Come now, Luis, even Saldur said not to underestimate him, legends speak of strange abilities. He's part god."

  "You believe too much in church doctrine. We are the protectorate of the faith. We don't have to wallow in superstition like ignorant peasants."

  "That sounds blasphemous."

  "The truth can never be blasphemous so long as it is tempered with an understanding of what is good and right. The truth is a powerful thing, like a crossbow. You wouldn't hand a child a loaded crossbow and say 'run and play' would you? People get hurt that way, tragedies occur. The truth must be kept safe, reserved only for those capable of handling it. This-this sacrilegious treasure in a box-is one truth above all that must be kept a secret. It must never again see the light of day. We will bury it, and bury it deep beneath the castle. We will seal it in for all time and it will become the cornerstone on which we will build a new and glorious Empire that will eclipse the previous one and wash away the sins of our forefathers."

  She watched as they opened the rear of the wagon and pulled out a man. A black hood covered his face. Chains bound his hands and ankles. Nevertheless, the men treated him carefully, as if he could explode at any minute.

  With four men on either side, they marched him across the courtyard out of the sight of her narrow window.

  She watched as they rolled the wagon back out and closed the gate behind them. Thrace stared at the empty courtyard for more than an hour, until at last she fell asleep again.

  ***

  The carriage bounced through the night on the rough hilly road, following a sliver of open sky between walls of forest. The jangle of harnesses, thudding of hooves, and the crush of wheels dominated this world. The night's air was heavily scented with the aroma of pond water and a skunk's spray.

  Arcadius, the lore master of Sheridan University, peered out the open window and hammered on the roof with his walking stick until the driver brought the carriage to a halt.

  "What is it?" the driver shouted.

  "This will be fine," the lore master replied, grabbing up his bag and, finding the strap, slipped it over his shoulder.

  "What is?"

  "I'm getting out here." Arcadius popped open the little door and carefully climbed out onto the desolate road. "Yes, this is fine." He closed the door and lightly patted the side
of the carriage as if it were a horse.

  The lore master walked to the front of the coach. The driver sat on the raised bench with his coat drawn up around his neck, a formless sack-hat pulled down over his ears. Between his thighs he trapped a small corked jug. "But there's nothing here, sir," he insisted.

  "Don't be absurd, of course there is. You're here, aren't you, and so am I." Arcadius pulled open his bag. "And look, there are some nice trees and this excellent road we've been riding on."

  "But it's the middle of the night, sir."

  Arcadius tilted his head up. "And just look at that wonderful starry sky. It's beautiful, don't you think. Do you know your constellations, good man?"

  "No, sir."

  "Pity." He measured out some silver coins and handed them up to the driver. "It's all up there, you know. Wars, heroes, beasts, and villains, the past and the future spread above us each night like a dazzling map." He pointed. "That long, elegant set of four bright stars is Persephone and she of course is always beside Novron. If you follow the line that looks like Novron's arm you can see how they just barely touch-lovers longing to be together."

  The driver looked up. "Just looks like a bunch of scattered dust to me."

  "It does to a great many people. Too many people."

  The driver looked down at him and frowned. "You sure you want me to just leave you? I can come back if you want."

  "That won't be necessary, but thank you."

  "Suit yourself. Goodnight." The carriage driver slapped the reins and the coach rolled out, circling in a field to return the way it came. The driver glanced up at the sky twice, shaking his head each time. The carriage and the team moved away, the horses clopping softer and softer until they faded below the harsh shrill of nightly noises.

  Arcadius stood alone observing the world. It had been some time since the old professor had been out in the wild. He had forgotten how loud it was. The high-pitched trill of crickets punctuated the oscillating echoes of tree frogs that peeped with the regular pace of a human heart. Winds rustled a million leaves, fashioning the voice of waves at sea.