Nyphron Rising Read online

  "Lord Seret?" Royce asked. "As in the Knights of Novron Seret?"

  "Indeed," Arcadius said. "The duke was commanded by the Patriarch to locate the whereabouts of Emperor Nareion's missing son Nevrik, so the duke formed an elite band of knights who swore an oath to find the heir. It wasn't until a hundred years after the death of Darius that the knights adopted the official name, the Order of Seret Knights, which later shortened out of convenience. Quite ironic actually as their responsibilities and influence broadened dramatically. You would hardly know it as the seret work mostly in secret—hidden so they can perform their duties invisibly. To this end, they still report directly to the Patriarch. It is really a matter of perceptive logic. Given there is a pseudo-invisible order of knights that seek to hunt down the heir, is it so impossible another unseen group is protecting him?"

  Arcadius stood up and, with no trouble navigating his way through the room's debris, reached the far wall. There a slate hung and with a bit of chalk he wrote:

  Theorem Eldership

  Then he crossed out each letter and underneath wrote:

  Shield the Emperor

  He returned to his desk and sat down.

  "If you decide to search for the heir," Arcadius told Royce in a grave tone, "be very careful. This is not some bit of jewelry you seek and he may be protected and hunted by men who will sacrifice their lives and use any means against you. If any of this is true, then I fear you will be entering into a world of shadows and lies where a silent, secret war has been waging for nearly a thousand years. There will be no honor and no quarter given. It is a place where people disappear without a trace and martyrs thrive. No price will be too great, no sacrifice too awful. What is at stake in this struggle—at least in their eyes—is the future of Elan.

  ***

  The number of students at Sheridan always diminished in summer, so Arcadius arranged for them to sleep in the vacated top floor known as Glen's Attic. The fourth floor dormitory in Glen Hall lacked even a single window and was oven-hot in summer. Home to the sons of affluent farmers, the upper dorm was deserted this time of year as students returned home to tend crops. This left the entire loft to them. It was one long room with a slanted ceiling so shallow even Arista had to watch her head or risk hitting a rafter. Cots jutted out from the wall where the ceiling met the floor, each nothing more than a straw mattress. Personal belongings were absent, but every inch of wood was etched with a mosaic of names, phrases, or drawings—seven centuries of student memoirs.

  Arista and Hadrian worked at drying their wet gear. They laid everything made of cloth across the floor and damp stains spread across the ancient timbers. Everything was soaked and smelled of horse.

  "I'll get a drying line up," Hadrian told her. "We can use the blankets to create a bit of privacy for you at the same time." He gave her a quizzical look.

  "What?"

  He shook his head. "I've just never seen a soaking-wet princess before. You sure you want to do this? It's not too late, we can still head back to Medford and—"

  "I'll be fine." She headed for the stairs.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To bring up the rest of the bags."

  "It's probably still raining and I can get those just as soon—"

  Arista interrupted him, "You have ropes to tie and, as you pointed out, I'm already soaked." She descended the steps. Her shoes squished and her wet dress hung with added weight.

  No one thinks I can do it.

  She led a pampered life. She knew that. She was no fool, but neither was she made of porcelain. How much fortitude did it take to live like a peasant? She was the daughter of King Amrath Essendon, Princess of Melengar—she could rise to any occasion. They all had her so well defined, but she was not like Lenare Pickering. She did not sit all day considering which dress went best with her golden locks. Arista stroked her still dripping head, and felt her flat tangled hair. Lenare would have fainted by now.

  Outside the rain had stopped, which left the air filled with the earthy smell of grass, mud, and worms. Everything glistened, and breezes touched off showers beneath trees. She forgot her cloak. It lay four flights up. She was going only a short distance and would be quick, but by the time she reached the carriage house, she regretted her decision. Three gown-draped students stood in the shadows talking about the new horses.

  "They're from Melengar," the tallest said with the confident, superior tone of a young noble speaking to lesser men. "You can tell by the Medford brand on that one."

  "So Lane, you think Melengar has fallen already?" the shortest of them asked.

  "Of course, I'll wager Breckton took it last night or maybe early this morning. It's about a day's ride from Medford, and that's why the owners of these horses are here. They're probably refugees, cowards fleeing like rats from a sinking ship."

  "Deserters?"

  "Maybe," Lane replied.

  "If Melengar really did fall last night, it might have been the king himself who fled," the short one speculated.

  "Don't be a rube!" the second tallest told him. "A king would never ride on nags like these."

  "Don't be too sure about that." Lane came to the little one's defense. "Alric isn't a real king. They say he and his witch sister killed their father and stole the throne just as he was about to name Percy Braga his successor. I even heard that Alric has taken his sister as his mistress, and there's talk of her becoming queen."

  "That's disgusting!"

  "The church would never allow that," said the other.

  "Alric kicked the church out of Melengar months ago because he knew it would try to stop him," Lane explained. "You have to understand that the Melengarians aren't civilized people. They're still mostly barbarians and slip further back into their tribal roots every year. Without the church to watch over them, they'll be drinking the blood of virgins and praying to Oberlin before the year is out. They allow elves to run free in their cities. Did you know that?"

  Arista could not see their faces as she stood beyond the doorway, careful to keep herself hidden.

  "So perhaps this is the nag the king of Melengar escaped on. He could be staying in one of the dorm rooms right now, plotting his next move."

  "Do you think Chancellor Lambert knows?"

  "I doubt it," Lane replied. "I don't think a good man like Lambert would allow a menace like Alric to stay here."

  "Should we tell him?"

  "Why don't you tell him, Hinkle?" Lane said to the short fellow.

  "Why me? You should do it. After all you're the one that noticed them."

  "Me? I don't have time. Lady Chastelin sent me another letter today and I need to work on my reply lest she drives a dagger into her chest for fear I have forgotten her."

  "Don't look at me," said the remaining one. "I'll admit it, Lambert scares me."

  The others laughed.

  "No, I'm serious. He scares the wax out of me. He had me in his office last semester because of that rabid rat stunt Jason pulled. I'd rather he'd just cane me."

  Together they walked off, continuing their chatter, only now it drifted to Lady Chastelin as doubts of her devotion to Lane arose.

  Arista waited a moment until she was certain they were gone then found the bags near the saddles and stuffed one under her arm. She grabbed the other two and quickly, but carefully, returned across the commons and slipped back up the stairs of Glen Hall.

  Hadrian was not in the loft when she returned but he had the lines up and blankets hung dividing the room. She slipped through the makeshift curtain and began the miserable task of stringing out her wet things. She changed into her nightgown and robe. They were near the center of her bag and only slightly damp. Then she began throwing the rest of her clothes over the lines. Hadrian returned with a bucket of water and paused when he spotted Arista brazenly displaying her petticoats and corset. She felt her face flush as she imagined what he was thinking. She traveled unescorted with two men, was bedding down in the same room—albeit a large and segmented hall—a
nd now she displayed her underwear for them to see. She was surprised they had not questioned her more intently. It would eventually come up, she knew. Royce was not the type to miss such an obvious breech of protocol as a maiden princess being ordered to travel alone in the company of two rogues, no matter how highly esteemed by the crown. As for her clothes, there was no other way or place to dry them safely, so it was this or wear them wet in the morning. There was no sense being prissy about it.

  Royce entered the dorm as she finished her work. He was wearing his cloak with the hood up. It dripped a puddle on the floor.

  "We'll be leaving well before dawn," he pronounced.

  "Is something wrong?" Hadrian asked.

  "I found a few students snooping around the carriage house when I made my rounds."

  "He does that," Hadrian explained. "Sort of an obsession he has. Can't sleep otherwise."

  "You were there?"

  Royce nodded. "They won't be troubling us anymore."

  Arista felt the blood drain from her face. "You…you killed them?" she asked in a whisper. As she said it, she felt sick. A few minutes earlier, listening to their horrible discussion, she found herself wishing them harm, but she did not mean it. They were little more than children. She knew, however, that Royce might not see it that way. She had come to realize that for him, a threat was a threat no matter the package.

  "I considered it." No tone of sarcasm tempered his words. "If they had turned left toward the Chancellor's residence instead of right toward the dormitories…but they didn't. They went straight to their rooms. Nevertheless, we will not be waiting until morning. We'll be leaving in a few hours, that way even if they do start a rumor about horses from Melengar, we will be long gone by the time it reaches the right ears. The Empire's spies will assume we are heading to Trent to beg their aid. We'll need to get you a new mount though before heading to Colnora."

  "If we are leaving as soon as that, I should go see Arcadius about that meal he promised," Hadrian said.

  "No!" Arista told him hastily. They looked at her, surprised. She smiled, embarrassed at her outburst. "I'll go. It will give you two a chance to change out of your wet things without me here." Before they could say anything, she slipped out and down the hallway to the stairs.

  It had been nearly a year since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River when Esrahaddon put a question in her head. The wizard had admitted using her to orchestrate the murder of her father to facilitate his escape, but he also suggested there was more to the story. This could be her only chance to speak with Arcadius. She took a right at the bottom of the stairs and hurried to his study.

  Arcadius sat on a stool at a small wooden desk on the far side of the room, studying a page of a massive tome. Beside him was a brazier of hot coals and an odd contraption she had never seen before—a brown liquid hung suspended above the heat of the brazier in a glass vial, as a steady stream of bubbles rose from a small stone immersed in the liquid. The steamy vapors rose through a series of glass tubes and passed through another glass container filled with salt crystals. From the end of that tube a clear fluid slowly dripped into a small flask. A yellow liquid also hung suspended above the flask, and through a valve one yellow drop fell for each clear one. As these two liquids mixed, white smoke silently rose into the air. Occasionally he adjusted a valve, added salt, or pumped bellows, causing the charcoal to glow red hot. At her entrance, Arcadius looked up.

  He removed his glasses, wiped them with a rag from the desk, and put them back on. He peered at her through squinting eyes.

  "Ah, my dear, come in." Then, as if remembering something important, he hastily twisted one of the valves. A large puff of smoke billowed up, causing several of the animals in the room to chatter. The stone fell to the bottom of the flask, where it lay quietly. The animals calmed down, and the elderly Master of Lore turned and smiled at Arista, motioning for her to join him.

  This was no easy feat. Arista searched for open floor to step on and, finding little, grabbed the hem of her robe and opted to step on the sturdiest looking objects in the shortest path to the desk.

  The wizard waited patiently with a cheery smile. His high rosy cheeks causing the edges of his eyes to wrinkle like a bed sheet held in a fist.

  "You know," he began, as she made the perilous crossing, "I always find it interesting what paths my students take to reach me. Some are direct, while others take more of a roundabout approach. Others end up getting lost in the clutter and some find the journey too much trouble and give up altogether, never reaching me."

  Arista was certain he implied more than he said, but she had neither the time nor inclination to explore it further. Instead, she replied, "Perhaps if you straightened up a bit you wouldn't lose so many students."

  The wizard tilted his head. "I suppose you're right, but where would be the fun in that?"

  Arista stepped over the rabbit cage, around the large pestle and mortar, and stood before the desk on a closed cover of a book no less than three-feet in height and two in width.

  The lore master looked down at her feet, pursed his lips, and nodded his approval. "That's Glenmorgan the Second's biography, easily seven hundred years old."

  Arista looked alarmed.

  "Not to worry, not to worry," he told her, chuckling to himself. "It's a terrible book written by church propagandists. The perfect platform for you to stand on, don't you think?"

  Arista opened her mouth, thought about what she was going to say, and then closed it again.

  The wizard chuckled once more. "Ah yes, they've gone and made an ambassador out of you, haven't they? You've learned to think before you speak. I suppose that's good. Now tell me, what brings you to my office at this hour? If it's about dinner, I apologize for the delay, but the stoves were out and I needed to fetch a boy to get them fired again. I also had to drag the cook away from a card game, which he wasn't at all pleased about. But a meal is being prepared as we speak and I will have it brought up the moment it is finished."

  "It's not that Master—"

  He put up a hand to stop her. "You are no longer a student here. You are a princess and Ambassador of Melengar. If you call me Arcadius, I won't call you Your Highness, agreed?"

  The grin of his was just too infectious to fight. She nodded and smiled in return.

  "Arcadius," she began again, "I've had something on my mind and I've been meaning to visit you for some time, but so much has been happening. First there was Fanen's funeral. Then, of course, Tomas arrived in Melengar."

  "Oh yes, the Wandering Deacon of Dahlgren. He came here as well preaching that a young girl named Thrace is the Heir of Novron. He sounded very sincere. Even I was inclined to believe him."

  "A lot of people did and that's part of the reason Melengar's fate is so precarious now."

  Arista stopped. There was someone at the door, a pretty girl, perhaps six years old. Long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, her hands clasped together holding a length of thin rope that she played with, spinning it in circles.

  "Ah, there you are. Good," the wizard told the girl, who stared apprehensively at Arista. "I was hoping you'd turn up soon. He's starting to cause a fuss. It's as if he can tell time." Arcadius glanced at Arista. "Oh, forgive me. I neglected to introduce you. Arista, this is Mercy."

  "How do you do?" Arista asked.

  The little girl said nothing.

  "You must forgive her. She is a bit shy with strangers."

  "A bit young for Sheridan, isn't she?"

  Arcadius smiled. "Mercy is my ward. Her mother asked me to watch over her for awhile until her situation improved. Until then I try my best to educate her, but as I learned with you, young ladies can be most willful." He turned to the girl. "Go right ahead, dear. Take Mr. Rings outside with you before he rips up his cage again."

  The girl moved across the room's debris as nimble as a cat and removed a thin raccoon from his cage. He was a baby by the look of it, and she carried him out the door, giggling as Mr. Rings sniffe
d her ear.

  "She's cute," Arista said.

  "Indeed she is. Now you said you had something on your mind?"

  Arista nodded and considered her words. The question Esrahaddon planted she now presented to her old teacher. "Arcadius, who approved my entrance into Sheridan?"

  The lore master raised a bristled eyebrow. "Ah," he said. "You know, I always wondered why you never asked before. You are perhaps the only female to attend Sheridan University in its seven hundred year history, and certainly the only one to study the arcane arts at all, but you never questioned it once."

  Arista's posture tightened. "I am questioning it now."

  "Indeed…indeed," the wizard replied. He sat back, removed his glasses, and rubbed his nose briefly. "I was visited by the Chancellor of the School, Ignatius Lambert, and asked if I would be willing to accept a gifted young lady into my instructions on Arcane Theory. This surprised me you see, because I didn't teach a class on Arcane Theory. I wanted to. I requested to have it added to the curriculum many times, but was always turned down by the school's patrons. It seemed they didn't feel that teaching magic was a respectable pursuit. Magic uses power not connected to a spiritual devotion to Maribor and Novron. At best it was subversive and possibly outright evil in their minds. The fact that I practiced the arcane arts at all has always been an embarrassment."

  "Why haven't they replaced you?"

  "It could be that my reputation as the most-learned wizard in Avryn lends such prestige to this school that they allow me my hobbies. Or it may be that anyone who has tried to force my resignation has been turned into the various toads, squirrels, and rabbits you see about you."

  He appeared so serious that Arista looked around the room at the various cages and aquariums, at which point the wizard began to chuckle.

  She scowled at him. Which only made him laugh harder.

  "As I was saying," Arcadius went on when he had once again gained control of himself. "Ignatius was in one sentence offering me my desire to teach magic if I was willing to accept you as a student. Perhaps he thought I would refuse. Little did he know that unlike the rest of them, I harbor no prejudices concerning women. Knowledge is knowledge, and the chance to be able to instruct and enlighten a princess—a potential leader—with the power to help shape the world around us was not a deterrent at all, but rather a bonus."