“I think you will find it spiritually uplifting. Honestly, I am surprised your father never brought you here. It is a pilgrimage every member of the Church of Nyphron needs to make once in their life.”
Arista nodded, failing to mention her late father was not terribly devout. He had been required to play his part in the religious services of the kingdom, but often skipped them if the fish were biting, or if the huntsmen reported spotting a stag in the river valley. Of course, there were times when even he sought solace. She had long wondered about his death. Why was he in the chapel the night that miserable dwarf stabbed him? More importantly, how did her Uncle Percy know he would be there and use this knowledge to plot his death? It puzzled her until she realized he was not there praying to Novron or Maribor—he was talking to her. It was the anniversary of the fire. The date Arista’s mother died. He probably visited the chapel every year and it bothered Arista that her uncle knew more about her father’s habits than she did. It also disturbed her that she had never thought to join him.
“You will have the privilege of meeting with his holiness the Archbishop of Ghent.”
She sat up surprised. “Alric never mentioned anything about a meeting. I thought we were merely passing through Ervanon on our way to Dunmore.”
“It is not a formal meeting. He is eager to see the new Ambassador of Melengar.”
“Will I be meeting with the patriarch as well?” she asked concerned. Not being prepared for Dunmore was one thing, but meeting the patriarch with no preparation would be devastating.
“No,” Saldur smiled like a man amused by a child’s struggle to take her first steps. “Until the Heir of Novron is found, the patriarch is the closest thing we have to the voice of god. He lives his life in seclusion, speaking only on rare occasions. He is a very great man, a very holy man. Besides, we can’t keep you too long. You don’t want to be late for your appointment with King Roswort in Glamrendor.”
“I suppose I will miss the contest then.”
“I don’t see how,” the bishop said after taking another sip that left his lips glistening.
“If I push on to Dunmore I won’t be in Ervanon to see—”
“Oh, the contest won’t be held in Ervanon,” Saldur explained. “Those broadsides you’ve no doubt seen only indicated that contestants are to gather there.”
“Then where will it be?”
“Ah, well now, that is something of a secret. Given the gravity of this event, it is important to keep things under control, but I can tell you this, Dunmore will be on the way. You will stop there long enough to have your audience with the king and then you will be able to continue on to the contest with the rest of them. Alric will most assuredly want to have his ambassador on hand for this momentous occasion.”
“Oh wonderful, I would like that—Fanen Pickering is competing. But does that mean you won’t be coming?”
“That will be up to the archbishop to decide.”
“I hope you can. I’m sure Fanen would appreciate as many people as possible cheering him on.”
“Oh, it’s not a competition. I know all those heralds are promoting it that way, which is unfortunate because the patriarch did not intend it so.”
Arista stared at him confused. “I thought it was a tournament. I saw an announcement declaring the church was hosting a grand event, a test of courage and skill, the winner to receive some magnificent reward.”
“Yes, and all of that is true, but misleading. Skill will not be needed so much as courage and…well, you’ll find out.”
He tipped the cup and frowned, then looked hopefully at Bernice.
Arista stared at the cleric a moment longer, wondering what all that meant, but it was clear Sauly would not be adding anything further on the topic. She turned back to the window peering out once more. Hilfred trotted beside the carriage on his white stallion. Unlike Bernice, her bodyguard was unobtrusive and silent. He was always there, distant, watchful, respectful of her privacy, or as much as a man could be who was required to follow her everywhere. He was always in sight of her but never looking—the perfect shadow. It had always been that way, but since the trial, he was different. It was a subtle change but she sensed he had withdrawn from her. Perhaps he felt guilty for his testimony, or maybe, like so many others, he believed some of the accusations brought against her. It was possible Hilfred thought he was serving a witch. Maybe he even regretted saving her life from the fire that night. She threw the curtain shut and sighed.
———
It was dark by the time the caravan arrived in Ervanon. Bernice had fallen asleep, her head hanging limp over the basket that threatened to fall. Saldur had nodded off as well, his head drooping lower and lower, popping up abruptly only to droop again. Through her window, Arista felt the cool, dewy night air splash across her face as she craned her neck to look ahead. The sky was awash in stars giving it a light dusty appearance and Arista could see the dark outline of the city rising on the great hill. The lower buildings were nothing more than shadows, but from within them rose a singular finger. The Crown Tower was unmistakable. The alabaster battlements that ringed the top appeared like a white crown floating high in the air. The ancient remnant of the Steward’s Empire was distinctive as the tallest structure ever made by man. Even at a distance it was awe-inspiring.
Surrounding the city Arista saw campfires, flickering lights scattered across the flats like a swarm of resting fireflies. As they approached, she heard voices, shouts, laughter, arguments rising up from the many camps along the roadside. They were the contestants, and there must be hundreds of them. Arista saw only glimpses as they rolled past. Faces illuminated by the glow of firelight. Silhouetted figures carried plates; men and boys sat on the ground laughing, tipping cups to their mouths. Tents filled the spaces in between and lines of tethered horses and wagons lay in the shadows.
The wheels and hooves of her carriage began a loud click-clack as they rolled onto cobblestone. They entered through a gate and all she could see were torches illuminating the occasional wall, or a light in a nearby window. Arista was disappointed. She had learned about the city’s history at Sheridan University and looked forward to seeing the ancient seat that once ruled the world. Since the fall of the Novronian Empire, only one ruler ever managed to make a serious attempt at unifying the four nations of Apeladorn. Glenmorgan of Ghent ended the era of civil wars, and through brilliant and brutal conquests unified Trent, Avryn, Calis and Delgos under one banner once more. Still holding out for Novron’s heir, the church nevertheless threw its support behind him and appointed Glenmorgan Defender of the Faith and Steward to the Heir. They solidified the union by moving to Ervanon and built their great cathedral alongside Glenmorgan Castle.
It did not last. According to Arista’s professor, Glenmorgan’s son was ill suited to the task he inherited, and the Steward’s Empire ended only seventy years after it began, collapsing with the betrayal of Glenmorgan III by his nobles. It was not long before Calis and Trent broke away and Delgos declared itself a republic.
Ervanon was mostly ruined in the warfare that followed, but in the aftermath the patriarch moved into the last remaining piece of Glenmorgan’s great palace—the Crown Tower. From then on, the tower and the city became synonymous with the church and recognized as the holiest place in the world behind the ancient—but lost—Novronian capital of Percepliquis itself.
The carriage stopped with a jerk that rocked the inhabitants, waking Saldur and causing the old maid to gasp when her basket spilled to the floor.