"Those farther south, I imagine," DeLunden retorted gruffly. "Put your hands on the lantern. Warm them lest they fall off."

"Such compa.s.sion," Merton said. "And for the likes of an Ervanonite like me."

"Not all Ervanonites are bad."

"There's only four of us."

"Yes, and of the four I can say that you are a good, devout, and gentle man."

"And the others?"

"I don't speak of them at all. I still find it altogether strange that only he and his guards managed to escape the desolation of Ervanon while all others perished."

"I am here."

"Novron loves you. Our lord pointed you out on the day of your birth and told his father to watch over you."

"You are too kind, and surely Novron loves everyone, and the leader of his church most of all."

"But the Patriarch is not-not anymore." The bishop peered from the vestibule toward the interior. "I don't like how he treats you."

Since the Patriarch had arrived, Bishop DeLunden had been very vocal about how the Patriarch treated everyone and, more importantly, his cathedral. It was a matter of jealousy, but Merton would never say anything. If Novron wished the bishop to learn this lesson, he would find a worthier vessel than him to explain.

"I also don't like how he holds court in the holy chancel, as if he were Novron himself. The altar deserves more respect. Only the empress should occupy that s.p.a.ce, only the blood of Novron, but he sits there as if he is the emperor."

"Is he there now?"

"Of course he is-him and his guards. Why does he need guards, anyway? I don't have guards and I meet dozens of people every day. He meets no one but is never separated from them-and what strange men. They speak only to him, and always in whispers. Why is that? He unnerves me. I am glad I never met the man when I was a deacon, or I should never have devoted my life to Novron."

"And that would have been a terrible loss to us all," Merton a.s.sured him. "Now if you do not mind, I must speak with the Patriarch."

"Patriarch! That's another thing. The man has a name-he was born with a name, just like the rest of us-but no one ever uses it. We refer to our lords as Novron and Maribor, but Nilnev of Ervanon must be referred to as the Patriarch, out of respect for his office as head of the church, but as I said, he's not the head anymore. Novron's child has returned to us, but still he sits there. Still he rules. I don't like it-I don't like it one bit, and I don't think the empress approves either. If she doesn't, we can be a.s.sured our lord Novron isn't too pleased."

"Would you like me to speak to him about your concerns?"

DeLunden scowled. "Oh, he knows. Believe me, he knows."

Merton left the bishop in the narthex and entered the nave. He stopped briefly, looking down the long cavernous room with its magnificent arched ceiling, shaped like a great ship's keel-the word nave, Merton had learned, was derived from the ancient term navis, meaning ship. Towering rows of ribbed pillars, like bunches of reeds bound together, rose hundreds of feet, spilling out at the tops, which spread to form the vaulted ceiling. To either side, lower aisles flanked the nave, encased in the arcades-the series of repeating archways and columns. Above them, the clerestory, or second story, was pierced by tall quatrefoil windows, which normally flooded the floor with light. Tonight they remained black and oily as they reflected the fire of the candles. The same was true of the great rose window at the far end of the cathedral, which appeared as one giant eye. Merton often thought of it as the eye of G.o.d watching them, but just as the clerestory lights were dark, so too the great eye remained shut.

Reaching the altar, Merton found alabaster statues of Maribor and Novron. Novron, depicted as a strong handsome man in the prime of his youth, was kneeling, sword in hand. The G.o.d Maribor, sculpted as a powerful, larger-than-life figure with a long beard and flowing robes, loomed over Novron, placing a crown on the young man's head. The statues were the same in every church and chapel; only the materials differed, depending on the means of the parishioners.

"Come forward, Monsignor," he heard the Patriarch say. His voice carried in echoes from the altar. The cathedral was so large that from where he stood, those in the chancel appeared tiny, dwarfed by distance and made small by the height of the ceiling and the breadth of the walls.

Merton walked the long pathway, listening to the sounds of his shoes against the stone floor.

Just as DeLunden had described, the Patriarch sat at the altar on a chair, his gold and purple robes draped to the floor. Rumors circulated it was the same chair he had used in Ervanon, which he had ordered brought with him at great effort. Merton had never interviewed with His Holiness while in Ervanon, so he could not say if that rumor was true. Few could-His Holiness had rarely seen anyone in his days sequestered in the Crown Tower.

He might have been sleeping, the way the old did, regardless of where they happened to be. To either side of him stood the guards, matching their charge perfectly in color and fashion. DeLunden was right, at least about the guards: they were a peculiar pair. They stood like statues, without expressions, and for a moment he considered how their eyes reminded him of the windows.

Upon reaching the Patriarch, Merton knelt and kissed his ring, then stood once more. The Patriarch nodded. The guards did not move-not even to blink.

"You have news," Nilnev prompted.

"I do, Your Holiness. I have just come from a meeting with Her Eminence and her staff."

"So tell me, what is the empress doing to protect us?"

"She has done a great deal. Supplies have been stored to last the city an estimated two years with proper rationing, which she has already inst.i.tuted. In addition, the grounds of Highcourt Fields will be opened to farmers come spring. This and other areas of the city will produce grain and vegetables from stored seed. Already manure is being delivered as fertilizer. Fish are being netted around the clock and salt houses are preserving the cod in bulk. A saltworks has been built near the docks to provide pans for raking. These measures could very well provide the city and its people with food for years-indefinitely, perhaps, should the fishing fleet be free to farm the sea.

"All stores are being kept underground in bunkers being dug by the populace in the event of attacks from the sky similar to what was seen at Dahlgren. In most instances, this is merely an expansion or adaptation of an existing dungeon. A series of tunnels have already been built that allow access to freshwater. The wastes from latrines are being channeled through newly built sewers. Given the frozen ground, progress is slow, but it is believed that adequate s.p.a.ce is already available to save the population-although it will be most uncomfortable. Plans to continue the expansion underground could take two or three more months. The empress actually feels that having it uncompleted is beneficial, as it gives the people something to do."

"So she plans to become a city of moles, hiding in the dirt?"

"Well, yes and no, Your Holiness. She has also strengthened the defenses of the city. A series of catapults are in various states of construction around the outer walls, and soldiers are being drilled by officers appointed by Marshal Breckton. He has devised a number of redundant procedures for every contingency, allowing a means of giving commands in the form of horns, drums, and flags to be flown from the high towers. Archers have stockpiled thousands of arrows and any able-bodied citizen not already employed is working to gather wood for more. Even children are scouring the forest floors. Oil and tar vats are prepared and in ample supply at all gates.

"Signal fires were placed to burn the moment the elves were spotted. One was lit and the empress has ordered all of the roads leading to the city to be destroyed, save the southern gate. All bridges and dams are to be broken in order to prevent-"

"Destroyed?" the Patriarch interrupted. "When did she give this order?"

"Just last night."

"Last night?" The Patriarch looked concerned. "Is there anything else?"

"The empress asked me to inquire what precautions you will be taking."

"That is none of her business," he replied.

Merton was shocked. "Begging your pardon, Your Holiness, but she is the empress as well as the head of the church. How is it not her business to know what efforts you have taken to secure her flock?"

The Patriarch glared at him for a moment, then softened his expression. "You are a good and devout member of the church, Merton of Ghent, and as our lord has seen fit to make you my liaison to the empress, I think perhaps it is time you were made aware of certain truths."

"Your Holiness?"

"Empress Modina is not the head of this church," the Patriarch declared simply.

"But she's the Heir of Novron-"

"That's exactly the problem-she is not." The Patriarch licked his nonexistent lips and continued. "Bishop Saldur and Archbishop Galien overstepped their mandate while in Dahlgren. They took it upon themselves to declare the girl the anointed heir. It was a well-intentioned mistake. They were too impatient to wait for Novron to show the way, so they sought to artificially create a new empire. They picked this girl at random, using the unexpected incidents on the Nidwalden to serve as proof. What happened there, however, was proof of nothing. It's a fabrication that a Gilarabrywn can only be slain by the blood of Novron. They used the ignorance of the ma.s.ses to build this false empire."

"Why didn't you stop it?"

"What could I do? Did you think I chose to live my life in seclusion?"

Merton looked at the Patriarch for a moment, confused; then the revelation dawned on him. "You were a prisoner?"

"Why else would I be locked away at the top of the Crown Tower all these years, never seeing anyone?"

"These guards?"

"The only two souls I know to be truly loyal to me. They tried to free me once. They spoke out and Galien had their tongues sliced off. Only now, with Saldur and the others dead, and Ervanon destroyed, am I able to speak freely."

"I can hardly believe it," the monsignor said. "The archbishop, and Saldur as well? But they both seemed so kindly."

"You have no idea of their ruthlessness. Now, as a result of their actions, a false G.o.d sits on the throne of our lord and our fate is in peril."

"But you can do something about it now, can't you?"

"What can I do? You've heard the mutterings of even old Bishop DeLunden. Imagine what the world would think if I tried to tell the truth. I would be labeled a jealous old man, clinging to lost power. No one would believe me. The empress would see me murdered, just as she eliminated Ethelred and Saldur when they stood in her way. No, I cannot act openly-not yet."

"What do you intend to do, then?"

"There is a greater issue at stake. We do not face just the extinction of the empire, but of mankind. Modina and her actions will doom all of us."

"Her preparations to defend the city certainly appear to-"

"Her efforts are useless, but that is not of which I speak."

"You're referring to the mission to Percepliquis?"

"Yes! It's by this that she imperils all."

"But you were at the meeting. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because that mission is necessary. It's imperative that the horn be found. The danger lies in who finds it. That horn is a weapon of incredible power. What Modina does not know-what even Saldur and Ethelred did not know-is that they have been fooled into searching for it. The enemy needs to lay hands on it as much as we do. Whoever wields it controls all. It's he who they obey. They have always been his p.a.w.n. For centuries, he has planned this, his hand guiding every move, hidden in the shadows, manipulating forces unseen. They think he is gone, that he is dead, but he is not. He is clever and crafty, his magic is beyond imagining, and he seeks revenge. A millennium of preparation comes down to this moment and it is he who desires the horn and with it will make all of mankind bow to him. Even the elves will pay for crimes committed a thousand years ago. They will hand the horn to him, for they do not see the danger traveling with them.

"Right now, in the depths of this world, ten individuals are delving into the past and discovering what never should be known, and with that knowledge the world will be undone, unless..."

Merton waited, and when the Patriarch said nothing more, he asked, "Unless what?"

The old man, with his barren brows and bluish hair, looked back as if pulled from a terrible nightmare. "I did what I could. I managed to strike a deal with a member of the empress's team. At the right moment, my agent will betray them."

"Who?"

"I will not say. You are a good servant of Novron, but I cannot take a chance of revealing his ident.i.ty even to you-not with so much at stake."

"Can you at least tell me who this evil one is? Who can span the course of a thousand years to bring this about?"

"Think hard, Monsignor, and you will know, but for now pray-pray to Novron that my agent will succeed in his charge."

"I will, Your Holiness. I will."

"Good, and pack your bags lightly."

"Am I going somewhere?"

"We both are."

CHAPTER 12.

THIEVES END.

Royce heard whispering.

He estimated it was an hour before dawn. Although he wasn't certain, it would surprise him if he was very far off. Royce had experience keeping track of time underground. He had developed a surprisingly accurate method during his incarceration in Manzant. During those days, tracking minutes had focused his mind, keeping it off other, more painful thoughts. This was the first time in many years he had allowed himself to remember those days. He had carefully locked them away, packaged them into a back corner of his mind with a dark blanket laid over top, just in case he accidentally looked that way. Only now did he welcome the memories. The pain they caused worked much the same way as keeping track of time had in Manzant, much the same as biting a finger, or squeezing his fist until the fingernails dug half-moons into his palm. They distracted him from thoughts of loss far more fresh-far more crippling.

More than a decade had pa.s.sed since the First Officer of the Black Diamond had betrayed him, since he had tragically killed Jade and as a result was sent to Manzant Prison by his best friend. Manzant was a dwarven-constructed prison and salt mine. He could still remember the dark rock with streaks of white and fossils of sh.e.l.lfish. The walls were sh.o.r.ed up with timber. Dwarves never used wood. Men added that years later as they carved deeper, hauling the chunks of rock salt out to the elevator in baskets. It was easy to tell the man-made sections from the dwarven by the height of the ceiling. Those being punished worked in the dwarven tunnels, and Royce often found himself there.

He recalled the constant clink of pick on stone and the heat of the fires boiling the brine out of underwater lakes. Huge pans, bubbling and hissing, filled the stale air with steam. If he closed his eyes, he could see the line of bucket men and the walkers chained by their necks to the huge wheel powering the pump. He could also see men driven to exhaustion until they collapsed into the furnace pit.

Water was plentiful, so it was available to those who worked, but Ambrose Moor, the owner of the prison mine, did not waste his profits on food. They were lucky to receive a single small meal a day, usually the spoiled remnants of what a crew of indentured sailors refused to eat. This was just one of many deals Ambrose arranged to minimize operation costs. Royce would fall asleep to dreams of killing Ambrose and the thoughts lingered throughout the day. In the two and a half years he spent in Manzant, he killed Ambrose five hundred and thirty-seven times-no two alike. He killed many people in Manzant and not all of them were imaginary. He never thought of them as people. They were all animals, monsters. Whatever humanity a man had possessed going in was leached out by the salt, pain, and despair. They all fought for rotten food, a place to sleep, a cup of water. He learned how to sleep light and how to appear like he was sleeping when he was not.

Never seeing daylight, never breathing fresh air, and being worked to exhaustion each day, and beaten for mere recreation, had killed many and driven others insane. For Royce, Manzant was only part of his prison, the latest incarnation. The real walls he had been building up brick by brick for years. Escaping Manzant was impossible, but it was ultimately easier than escaping the prison of his own making.

Nim had started him on the path, and later Arcadius and Hadrian had guided his way, but it was Gwen who had finally unlocked the cell door. She shoved it open and stood just outside calling, a.s.suring him it was safe. He could smell the fresh air and see the brilliance of the sun. He was almost through, almost out-almost.

The whispering came from near the pool.

He thought everyone was asleep. They had traveled a long distance that day over hard terrain. No one had called for him to stop, but he had seen them stumbling-all except the dwarf. The little rat never seemed to tire but continued to scurry, and more than once, Royce had spotted a little smile behind the mustache and remains of his beard.

He had almost killed Magnus that first night they had spent at The Laughing Gnome. The thought had danced teasingly on his mind. That was before Myron came back from dinner and got all chatty. Royce would not admit it to anyone, but the dwarf was useful, and on surprisingly good behavior-which showed even more good sense. More than that, he discovered he no longer had the desire. Like everything else, the dwarf's crime had been made trivial by Gwen's death. Both love and hate were banished from him. He was a desert, dry of all pa.s.sion. Mostly he was tired. He had one last job to do and he would do it, not for the empire, not even for Hadrian-this was for Gwen.

He got to his feet silently, out of curiosity more than concern. The whispering was definitely coming from the party-not some intruder. He spotted the princess lying on her side, wrapped in twisted blankets. She was jerking and thrashing again, that creepy robe glowing different colors, fading out and lighting up. He had no idea if the robe was causing her to dream so violently or if her dreams sparked the robe's response. He did not see how it was any of his business and moved on.

At first, he thought it might be Magnus and Gaunt whispering. He frequently spied them traveling together and talking when the rest were too far to hear. Drawing closer, he discovered the source-it was Elden. He could see the huge reclined form up on one elbow under the blanket. His conspirator was on the far side and blocked from view. Wyatt lay a short distance away. He too was awake and watching.

"What's going on?" Royce whispered to the sailor. "Who's Elden talking to?"

"The monk."

"Myron?"

Wyatt nodded.

"Is it normal for him to talk to strangers like that?"

Wyatt looked at him. "He's talked more to that little monk in the last three days than he has to me in the last decade. They were doing this last night too, and I swear I heard Elden crying. I once watched while a ship's surgeon put a red-hot poker to a wound on his thigh. Elden didn't make a sound, but last night that little monk had him weeping so bad his eyes were red the next morning."

Royce said nothing.

"Funny thing, though, he was smiling. All day long, I saw Elden grinning from ear to ear. That's just not like him."